


Just in Time to See the Sun

by lithalos



Series: Caravanserai [1]
Category: Persona 5
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Persona 5 Spoilers, truly i somehow turned a light idea into something heavy its a talent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-15
Updated: 2018-05-09
Packaged: 2018-12-02 10:24:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 24,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11507454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lithalos/pseuds/lithalos
Summary: Akechi knew coming was a mistake, but when offered the chance to see the those who were supposedly responsible for criminals confessing crimes that hid just beneath the surface of scrutiny, to see those who were potentially responsible for mental shutdowns that cost lives...how could he resist?Or, alternatively: The Phantom Thieves are a band, Akechi has migraines, and Akira can't keep to himself.





	1. a dull ache

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't normally write, but I had an idea and it stuck
> 
> M rating because I'm cautious and there's some sort of. unsettling/bloody descriptions of migraines in this. The migraines Akechi describes are ripped straight from My LifeTM so I mighta gone a bit overboard. *shrugs*
> 
> anyways, let me know if i should continue this. i've got ideas on where i wanna go from here.
> 
> (unbeta'd and probably suffering for it)

Akechi knew coming was a mistake the second he stepped into the bar and caught a lung full of smoke—most of which, he noted with dismay, was not cigarette smoke. It filled the dim air with a heavy haze and a thick sense of anonymity. Even he struggled to make out facial features of those around him as they appeared to shift and change with the billowing smoke. Eyes melded into mouths, noses into hair—or was that a smile?—with people swirling sickeningly and progressively becoming more and more distorted the longer he stared. Finding Niijima was going to be impossible at this rate.

He let out a long, weary sigh and pressed a hand to his temple. This smoke wasn’t helping his migraine any, nor was the constant low hum of indecipherable conversation that was bouncing around his skull. The pressure in his head was only getting worse and Akechi almost felt as if he was slipping, losing his grip on reality—

“Ah, Akechi!”

He snapped his attention away from the smoke, away from the chatter, and onto Sae Niijima, who smiled wanly at him. The first thing he noticed was the absence of her typical sharp business suit, replaced with a simple black blouse and dark jeans, followed shortly by the realization he’d never seen Niijima _out_ of that suit. Her hair was pulled into a loose ponytail that she seemed incapable of keeping herself from fidgeting with.

Niijima was out of her element, and it showed. A sentiment he could relate to.

“Hello, Niijima. I was just about to look for you.” Akechi offered her a plastic, pleasant smile. She didn’t notice it was a bit forced; or if she did, she opted not to comment on it. Instead, she placed a hand on her hip and frowned at the sea of formless people crowding around tables in front of the bar’s stage. Right. The reason he was even here in the first place.

“I heard they’re going to be starting soon.” Niijima scowled bitterly at the empty stage before shifting her gaze back to Akechi. “Sorry for dragging you out here like this.”

The small smile she offered him did little to soothe his annoyance, and even less for his migraine. “Let’s just get this over with,” He replied drily, fiddling absently with his gloves in an effort to distract himself from the throbbing ache in his head. “The sooner we can confirm their connection to the cases, the better.”

Niijima let out a dark chuckle at his side--Akechi’s eyes flicked to her long enough to spot the fierce, determined grin on her face. “I have no doubt they’re connected. They have to be.” The grin slipped from her face. For a brief moment, Akechi was sure he saw desperation in her eyes, but it was gone just as quickly as it came.

Instead, her gaze shifted back to him, brows furrowed in muted concern, but for what he couldn’t guess—“Akechi, are you alright? You’re looking pretty pale.” Ah, so Niijima noticed. Perhaps she could see the rivulets of blood he was sure was pouring down his face, after all this kind of pain never came without wounds, he could almost smell the iron in the air—

“...yes, I’m fine.” Akechi despised the way his voice shook, but his mouth was thick with blood, it had to be. “If I may excuse myself for a moment, however.” The following smile was weak and unconvincing but it hardly mattered; it was unlikely that the concerned look on Niijima’s face would be fading anytime soon no matter how well he managed to present himself. How out of sorts he must look.

“Go. I’m sure you could use a breath of fresh air.” Niijima offered an apologetic smile, as if his agony were her fault. It was almost admirable, really, just how much she bore the responsibility of inviting him with as if it weren’t something he could simply decline. No, this was his doing, his curiosity and burning sense of justice drove him to come here, despite knowing how...difficult it could prove.

“If you’ll excuse me, then.” Akechi flashed one more paltry smile before spinning sharply on his heels and striding towards one of the bar’s side exits and slipping out into the cool autumn night. The crisp air replacing the smoke did little to ease the migraine, but it helped ground him back into reality a bit, at least. If only he had some of his painkillers on him, but his last bottle was tucked safely into his briefcase at home. Akechi had left it as a precaution—the invaluable information in there could never find itself in hands other than his. Even Niijima rarely got glimpses inside. How could he explain to her his... _other_ work in any way that wouldn’t end with him in handcuffs?

Akechi pinched the bridge of his nose with a scowl and squeezed his eyes shut. Now wasn’t the time to let his thoughts run away from him, and Niijima was likely waiting—

“Rough night?”

It took all of Akechi’s remaining composure _not_ to jump; had he really not heard the sounds of someone approaching? He was really losing his touch. Schooling his expression to something a bit more neutral, he dropped his hand and glanced at who dared approach him. It took all of his feeble willpower not to glare, but Akechi found he couldn’t manage a smile.

The mop of black hair was the first thing that really caught his eye, followed shortly by steely grey eyes nearly hidden behind thick frames. Sharp jawline, mild concern on an otherwise neutral expression, but what really caught Akechi’s attention was the small bottle in the stranger’s outstretched hand. It looked like...painkillers?

Akechi must have had a strange expression on his face as the stranger simply shrugged lazily and extended his hand further, closer. “Naproxen—nothing weird. Looked like you could use some.”

The stranger’s voice was quiet, but sure and commanding. An odd mix, but pleasant nonetheless. Gingerly, Akechi took the bottle—still sealed, he noted with a mix of confusion and relief—and struggled to regain his television charisma with a small smile. “You wouldn’t happen to have water on you, by any chance?”

This wasn’t like him. Accepting handouts was something he pointedly avoided doing, yet here he was laying aside his pride for a damn bottle of pills, from a stranger no less. He could feel his blood boiling, burning at his face, leaving hot and sizzling trails down his skin—

“Oh.” The stranger’s soft voice snapped Akechi’s destructive reverie as he slung a backpack from his shoulders and began rifling around in its depths. (Akechi hear the rustling of a plastic bag shoved crudely inside and fought the urge to grin triumphantly as it confirmed his suspicions.) Finally, the stranger tugged a plastic water bottle from it and held it out for Akechi, who took it with only the slightest hesitance this time.

After Akechi tossed down some of the painkillers and a swig of water, he turned his attention back to the stranger who’d taken to leaning against the wall beside him. The skepticism and wariness must have been showing on his face, or perhaps the stranger was more discerning than most Akechi found himself around.The stranger chuckled breathily and tugged nervously at black shaggy bangs.

“Better?”

Akechi could already tell this one was not the type to speak in full sentences, but rather picks the fewest words to convey the same meaning. Not particularly useful for maintaining small-talk, but Akechi found he was glad for it. He wasn’t in the mood to entertain and provide false pleasantries at the moment, anyways. “Ah, yes.” A lie, the painkillers hadn’t kicked in yet, but it seemed the stranger may already know that if the wry smile he was levelling Akechi with was anything to go by. “I didn’t catch your name, though.”

“Didn’t give it.” The impatient frown Akechi gave the stranger seemed to amuse him. “Akira. Akira Kurusu.” He added, almost as an afterthought.

“Well, thank you Kurusu,” Akechi pushed away from the wall with a small, fake sigh. “I appreciate everything you’ve done, but I must be going.”

It was probably true—Niijima would tear the building down looking for him if he were gone too long—but the small rueful smile Kurusu gave him made his stomach twist in an odd way.

“Of course.”

* * *

 

“What the hell took you so long—and where did you get that?” Niijima’s hushed, yet forceful, questioning began the moment he returned to her side; with a cursory glance back at the small bottle in his hand, he hastily shoved it in his pocket and levelled her with another plastic grin.

“I ran into a rather helpful fellow while outside,” At this Niijima looked to be opening her mouth to say something, but Akechi simply raised a hand and continued. “They were both sealed to begin with. I’m young, not stupid.”

A distressed grimace made its way to her face. “Still, that was exceptionally reckless.” A sigh. “Especially for you.”

If Akechi was about to say something, it would have been lost in the booming, explosive shout from the bar stage.

“Hell _oooo,_ Tokyo!” A blonde boy yelled with a wide, devious grin into the microphone. A silvery skull mask hid half his face, dressed in a heavily studded leather jacket with a high collar, red ascott around his throat, studded belts around his waist and what Akechi could only _assume_ were drumsticks poking from the pockets of his dark jeans. They looked more like studded mini-maces to him. “Are you ready to have an absolute _blast_?”

A rousing chorus of excited cheers erupted around him—suddenly, he was _very_ grateful to Kurusu, whatever his motives were for helping him. After a moment of appearing to drink in the attention, the blonde continued. “I’m Skull—” How original, Akechi thought cooly. “—and I’m sure we don’t need no introduction, but for the two of ya who don’t know,” Skull leaned forward with a devilish smirk. “we’re the Phantom Thieves.”

Akechi’s blood ran cold; the ones responsible for at the _very_ least several influential people to confess crimes that hid just beneath the thin veneer of innocence through unknown methods were _right here_ . Brazenly announcing their presence for the whole world. Filing onto the stage dressed audaciously in lavish and, frankly, _gaudy_ costumes with instruments strapped to them—they were _here_. The Phantom Thieves of Hearts.

A girl dressed in a bright red leather jacket zipped up to the neck, a shiny red cat mask and flowing pigtails of glittering wheat replaced Skull at the front with a dazzling smile. Panther, Akechi recalled—they all apparently had code-names, as he had discovered on their avid fansite earlier. The girl behind the keys with a metal band mask dressed like an apocalyptic thrasher was Queen; Skull settled in on the throne of the drumset with a wicked grin; the blue-haired boy with the fox mask and tail and knee length white combat boots on bass was Fox…

And with that, his gaze rested on the guitarist. A flowing three-tailed coat, red gloves, and piercing grey eyes staring out from under a black and white mask that failed to cover his self-satisfied smirk.

Joker.

“Didn’t expect them to look so…” Niijima struggled to find the words as she gestured vaguely at the stage—Akechi offered her the first genuine smile of the night.

“Flashy?”

“ _Normal.”_ She finished in a huff, face pulled into a nervous and unsettled scowl. As loath as Akechi was to admit it, she was _right_ . This obnoxious band—these _teenagers_ —were the ones behind so-called changes of heart in several criminals, and potentially behind the series of mental shutdowns and breakdowns?

Something nagged at him, a sense of unease in his chest that told him he shouldn’t underestimate them because they were _teenagers_. After all, so was he, and that hardly meant he was anyone to trifle with. They should not be underestimated, at the very least.

“Hey everyone!” The blonde girl pulled his attention back to the stage as she levelled the crowd with a bright, cheerful grin before grabbing the mic from its stand and stretching lazily with it. “Hope you like what you hear…” Her sentence trailed off and her grin shifted into an unsettlingly cunning smirk.

Joker raised one gloved hand in the air, the other gripping the neck of his pitch-black guitar, a sly smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Akechi was finding it increasingly difficult to tear his eyes away from the guitarist--no matter who was up front, it was _clear_ he was the one calling the shots. Or perhaps, it was the lingering sense of familiarity nagging at him that kept his gaze rooted there, stuck on those steely, sharp grey eyes.

When those grey eyes met _his_ , Akechi nearly felt his heart stop but the following flurry of thoughts whizzing through his head was cut off by one commanding shout—

“It’s showtime!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also fun fact! naproxen sodium is one of the better things you can take for migraines--acetaminophen and ibuprofen can both cause cyclical headaches. basically you take them for headaches and they cause headaches. tips and tricks from your local migraine enthusiast.
> 
> Catch me on twitter and tumblr (@ lithalos) for doodles and yelling about life


	2. check, please

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Akechi's bad with music, drinks an awful lot of coffee, and Akira's got a migraine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [UPDATE: Rearranged this chapter a bit to make it flow better with the next. Nothing major, just actually put it in chronological order...whoops.]
> 
> ok so it took me a bit longer than i thought to get this out because work has run me down the past couple days but!! here we are
> 
> i've actually got a couple doodles on my twitter of this au. (and when i say doodles i mean. they are a mess. but they exist.) so check those out if you wanna ( @ lithalos like always bc i don't know how to hyperlink in these gosh diddly dang boxes)
> 
> (still unbeta'd and still miserable for it)

If there was one thing Akechi knew he was out of touch with, it was music. It never held his attention, wasn’t something he had ever been particularly interested in. Playing instruments was nothing but a waste of his valuable time in his eyes, and he could honestly care less about the rabble on the radio these days. To be perfectly honest, most of it sounded the same to him.

Annoying. Repetitive. Dull.

As his classmates and coworkers would ramble on about the newest musical discovery they made, about the wonderful song on the radio, he’d slap on a smile and nod. It wasn’t as if he could contribute to the conversation. He didn’t want to, anyways.

Occasionally, he’d indulge in putting on a few symphonies as he worked, but more often than not, he sat in the silence with his own deafening thoughts.

Yet, even with his limited knowledge, Akechi knew for a _fact_ that the Phantom Thieves were exceptional at what they did. The awe bubbling in his chest as they played was nearly suffocating, gaze transfixed on the stage where they stood.

Panther’s voice was strong, sure, with an even tone that rang out clear through the entire bar and shook Akechi to his bones. He couldn’t make out words, couldn’t bring himself to try. All he could focus on was the _sound_ as it shook the ground beneath him and rattled him to his core. The notes, the lyrics were singing through his veins, body brimming with an oddly warm feeling. The guitar screamed through his muscles, the drums dictated his heartbeat, keys drowning out restless, tireless thoughts.

Akechi was completely hooked, captivated and unmoving—

Niijima’s hand on his shoulder nearly made him jump out of his skin, his heart temporarily relocating itself to his throat and thudding wildly. From her startling him or something else, he couldn’t say. “Akechi, are you alright? You were looking…” Her voice was difficult to make out through the pounding drums and the blaring guitar, even harder still through the thunderous ringing in his ears. “Out of it.”

And in that moment, the spell was broken. The bar, the smoke, the lights all came rushing back sickeningly quick. Shaking the cobwebs from his head, Akechi shifted his eyes back onto the stage. Now that the music was no longer distracting him, (and that was putting it mildly,) analyzing the Thieves was top priority. First and foremost…

Akechi couldn’t help it; his eyes landed back to Joker. Aside from the roguish smirk, the thin sheen of sweat beading on his face, and hands flying across the fretboard, he looked... _normal_ , as Niijima had so aptly put it before. Like a teenager playing in a band, and not some mystical thief of otherworldly desires. Anticlimactic, at the very least, after that ordeal.

It did little to quell the unsettled nervousness gnawing at his stomach. Normal or not, he couldn’t rationalize the intoxicating effect the music had on him earlier. Even with minimal musical training or expertise, Akechi knew there was _nothing_ normal about that. There was no denying it now—the Phantom Thieves of Heart were absolutely no ordinary band of teenagers. All he needed to do now was figure out _how_.

* * *

“Yo! Earth to Akira?”

Akira blinked up at him once. Then twice, shifting his eyes to rest on Ryuji slung lazily on one of the chairs of the attic. It was clear the others were waiting on a response from him on _something_ if their unified unblinking stares were anything to go by, but through the pounding in his head, he wasn’t sure _what._ Damn migraine.

“I’m sorry, could you repeat that?” He said as he tugged off his glasses and squeezed his eyes shut. Was the attic always this bright?

Akira heard someone—Makoto—let out a dissatisfied sigh. “We were simply going over tonight’s performance. But...” A pause. “...are you up for that? You seem a bit tired.”

That was putting it mildly. “It’s nothing I can’t handle.” They were just going to have to continue this with his eyes closed if anything was going to get done.

“I thought you had stopped to get some medicine before we left?” Haru asked quietly; he cracked open an eye to see that instead of an inquisitive look on her face, it was a kind, knowing smile. Almost frightening how little slipped by her sometimes.

Ann, however, had the most smug grin on her face he’d ever seen—and if he’d had _any_ intentions of hiding where his pills went, that went out the window the second she opened her mouth. “I’m sure if we invited a _certain detective_ over, he’d be fine.”

“Yeah, because he has my meds…” Akira muttered. Ryuji groaned as Ann’s grin grew to dangerously devious levels.

“Ugh, okay, let’s just call it here.” With a stretch, Ryuji hopped up from his chair and slung his pack over his shoulder. “Let’s meet up again when ya have some more meds, man.” The blond clapped a hand on Akira’s back as he walked by, offering an apologetic grin before taking off.

Most of the Thieves followed suit after that, save for Haru and Ann; Haru was absently scratching behind Morgana’s ear as he rested in her lap while Ann was giving Akira the most mischievous grin he’d seen. It was only after Makoto slung her keyboard case on her back and made her way down the stairs with one last concerned stare, that they finally broke the silence.

“Sooooo…” Ann started, leaning her chin on her palm as her grin broke into a full-blown impish smile; Akira dropped his throbbing head to the table with a dull thud and an exasperated sigh. No getting out of this now. “You and the detective, huh?”

“Why did I tell you about that…” He mused, voice muffled by the table. “We only talked for, like, a minute. Hardly date material.”

Haru’s soft, light-hearted chuckle had Akira lifting his head again; she hid her smile beneath her hand, but it still crinkled the corners of her eyes. “You were so excited, though! It was nice to see!”

His face flushed bright as he opened his mouth to respond, but Ann beat him to the punch. “You hopeless gay.”

Akira’s eyes narrowed. “Takes one to know one.”

“True.”

Haru giggled again as she stood, gently placing Morgana on the table. “I think it’s cute. I’m glad to see you happy.” Her face shifted into a more serious expression as she grabbed her tote bag. “Though… you should be cautious. He _is_ investigating the Phantom Thieves, after all.”

“Oh yeah.” Ann slid back in her seat as her smile slipped into a crestfallen pout—it would seem she had forgotten all about that little caveat.

Akira, on the other hand, was painfully aware of how dangerous getting involved with the detective could be. Frankly, with all the illegal activities he’s been up to with the Phantom Thieves, being in the near vicinity to Akechi was like playing with fire. Safe if done with care, but all too easy to burn.

Best case scenario, everything goes swimmingly and nothing bad happens, ever. Worst case scenario...spelled the end of the Phantom Thieves in some way shape or form. Most likely end being handcuffs and a cushy, lonely prison cell.

It would be fine if they didn’t get too close. Calculated caution was the name of the game, and boy was Akira bad at math.

* * *

 

In any other instance, Akechi would feel at least slightly guilty for the mess he’d made on Leblanc’s worn countertops. And truly, a mess indeed—countless case files were scattered along the scratched wood, notebook paper filled with his quick chicken-scratch handwriting flung haphazardly onto the bar. And the floor. But, being on his fourth (or was it the fifth?) cup of Leblanc’s special house blend, Akechi couldn't bring himself to truly care. It’s not like there were _other_ customers he could be bothering by being a slovenly, sleep deprived wreck.

Sakura didn't seem to mind, at any rate, if that bemused smile was anything to go by. Every now and again he’d glance up from scrubbing the same poor cup and pour a little extra coffee into Akechi’s cup when he thought the detective wasn’t looking (he was). It would be heartwarming, if Akechi wasn’t so bone tired.

After about five or six hours of staring blearily at the same file, however, Sakura finally spoke up. “Kid, maybe you should rest a bit.” His voice didn’t sound judgemental or irritated, just...concerned. “Look at it with some fresh eyes tomorrow.”

The detective blinked up at him once. Then twice. As touching as it was to have someone worry for him, there was entirely too much work to be done to simply put it down. “Ah, I’m fine for now.” Akechi tried for one of his bland television grin, but he feared it may have been more of a grimace. “Thank you, though.”

With a heavy sigh, Sakura finally set his blindingly clean coffee cup with the others. “Whatever you say.” He glanced at the clock. “I actually have to run, but I’ll have my part-timer take over. Have him let you out when you’re done.”

This time, Akechi managed a small, genuine smile. “I appreciate it, Sakura. Thank you.”

The last vestiges of the hardened, grumpy old man persona faded as Sakura ran a hand through his dark hair, brows furrowed a bit. “Just...don’t burn yourself out. Rest is just as important as work, you know.”

The detective nodded before returning to sifting through his case files once more. There were a few incidents that the Phantom Thieves had taken credit for; Kamoshida being the first, Medjed easily their most famous. Each case had the same modus operandi—that being a flashy calling card had been sent, and the next day each victim had confessed their horrible, unseen and unpunished crimes.

A small, irrational part of Akechi _believed_ in what they were doing. Kamoshida had been physically and sexually abusing students of the Shujin volleyball team. Madarame had been plagiarizing works of his pupils and the rumors of physical abuse, while not addressed, had not been denied either. Kaneshiro was a menace in Shibuya, and a terror to the students he’d been bleeding dry. Medjed was a danger to society—to Japan—when the Thieves had stopped them.

Akechi could not say with conviction that he wasn’t glad to see them go. He was. They were a dark stain in the fabric of justice that just _couldn’t_ be scrubbed out, no matter how hard he and others tried. They fell through the cracks of the law, unchecked and running rampant through _his_ city. No matter how many hours they spent building cases, preparing arguments, it felt _futile_. Niijima herself had been slaving over the Kaneshiro case for a considerable amount of time when he turned himself in (something Akechi recalled her being none too pleased with when it happened).

Yet, their methods were just another mystery and another part of the problem. It was all well and good that criminals were off slapping cuffs on themselves, but all the Thieves’ actions were doing was diminishing the power and respect for the law. Who knows what would happen if _everyone_ started going outside the law to find their justice? Where, exactly, would the line be drawn—

Ah. His cup was empty.

Akechi groaned wearily, pinching the bridge of his nose with a gloved hand and trying to stave off another migraine. Clearly, he was getting nowhere, fast. Coffee wasn’t the best for—

“Coffee isn’t good for migraines.”

If anyone had ever asked, the detective would _never_ admit that he’d jumped so hard he toppled the chair—and himself—to the ground. It was simply too uncouth for the charismatic ace detective. And yet, there he was, amongst his pages of illegible notes and squinting up at the lights. His heart was hammering in his chest about a mile a minute, and catching his breath was a marathon. Few could sneak up on him like this, even when exhausted and dazed like this.

Honestly though, Akechi didn’t much feel like moving. Even as the frantic footsteps from behind the counter approached, he felt no desire to get up, to make himself presentable. There was no saving face after a mishap like that, and Akechi couldn’t muster up enough energy to care. After all, this quiet bastard simply had the best timing to catch him off guard—what was one more to add to the pile?

Kurusu's worried face came into view seconds later, slate grey eyes wide behind skewed glasses and black hair even more of a mess than Akechi had remembered it. The green apron he wore was tied haphazardly, unevenly, and if the drowsy look on Kurusu's face was anything to go by, Akechi could take a gander at why. Perhaps the detective wasn’t the only one caught off guard tonight.

It took him a moment to register that Kurusu was holding out a hand to help him up, lips moving as he said _something_ Akechi didn’t quite catch; Akechi hesitantly reached up to grab it, then—

He yanked as hard as he could.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YIKES ok i will admit i'm not great at writing but this one was a struggle there for a bit
> 
> fun fact tho this doc is named mona lisa in my drive because. what's accurate naming conventions. that's silly.
> 
> also yes this may be a bit of a where's waldo with the straight characters but Everyone's Gay Here, Sharon ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> anywhoo catch me on twitter or tumblr @ lithalos if ya wanna. peace out and hopefully the next chapter should be up. soon. once i get some sleep.


	3. silence.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bad choices, guitars, and a whole lot of wood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This chapter contains mild self-harm implications. Heads up.]
> 
> didn't mean to take so long with this one...wound up starting it and rewriting it a bunch of times because. i just didn't like it at all. this time sat myself down with cold-turkey writer, no backspace, no nothin' and swore i'd upload whatever came out of it...and here we are.
> 
> it's a bit of a mess.
> 
> (unbeta'd and softly weeping for it)

Hindsight was always superior to present thought. One could look upon the past objectively, see multiple angles from which the problem could have been handled.  The absence of an emotional response and the cool, detached logic that replaces it easily bested flashes of inspiration and rash decisions.

Dangerous, though. Constantly dwelling on what could have been, on those miscalculations, those gross oversights, can consume. It burns bitterly cold; once touched, it sticks and it _hurts_ , freezing and cracking until the slightest pressure causes it to break.

Akechi was all too familiar with oppressive, unending thoughts. He was easily his own worst critic, as the trite saying goes—even if it rang with a truth he was loath to admit. Regret clung to him like a fine tailored suit, ever present, suffocating. Missteps nagged at the back of his mind without end, humiliating him with the reminder of how he, despite his best facade and charming smile, was not infallible. Painfully far from it, actually. His few television appearances, the prodding, invasive questions had made his faults glaringly obvious. The detective had no special qualities he could name at the drop of a hat, but could provide numerous examples of his many, many, _many_ mistakes.

Too numerous for a teenager. Yet here he was, proving that he could manage to be the most colossal fuck up in half the time. A talent, he would think. A miserable, shameful, worthless talent.

So honestly, what was adding one more mistake to the list? Even if he'd have bruised ribs from where Kurusu's elbows slammed into him with all the force and grace of a runaway truck, even if he could feel the splintery, shattered remains of a well-worn, well-loved chair in his back, he couldn't bring himself to feel remorse.

Was it a bad choice? Akechi was no fool, he knew the answer was a resounding yes. But as he heard the soft giggle bubble up from on top of him, as he caught a glimpse of a small, carefree smile, the stinging regret...never came.

"I guess that's one way to say 'hello,'" Kurusu managed between quiet peals of laughter, propping himself up on Akechi's (sore) chest with a dopey, lopsided grin. "Though I think just saying it would have worked too."

Akechi raised a brow before realizing he too had a grin on his face—he tried to slip back into an aloof, neutral persona as he cleared his throat. "Hello." The mask cracked with another smile.

Kurusu snorted, attempting to hide his innocent, genuine joy behind a hand pressed to his lips. It was the most animated Akechi had seen him in their brief interactions; the spark of amusement in those slate eyes, the way his chest shuddered with nearly unrestrained chuckles, it was infectious.

It lasted until Akechi shifted, trying to relieve some of the pressure of Kurusu's weight on his chest but instead sucking in a pained gasp as those wooden shards dug further into his back. As if electrified, Kurusu hopped off of him (and onto his feet with a nimbleness that Akechi, in his right mind, would find suspicious but right now he was simply envious) with a horrified look on his face. Or as horrified as his ever present deadpan expression would allow. A shame he wasn't smiling anymore, Akechi thought through the distracting stinging in his back.

He took everything back. There was at least _some_ regret.

"Akechi, shit..." Running a hand through his hair, Kurusu extended his hand out once more, concern glinting in his eyes—or was that just the light reflecting off his glasses and playing tricks on him? "I would ask if you're okay, but there's some blood on the floor. I can guess."

"Quite the detective work, Kurusu." Akechi rasped out, squinting at the overhead lights for a moment before taking the other's hand and letting himself be pulled up from the floor. (It occurred to him later that Kurusu lifted him as if he were weightless—either an uncomfortable reminder that he weighed perhaps less than he should, or an impressive and subtle display of how strong Kurusu apparently was.) Sure enough, he could feel sticky rivers burn their ways down his spine. He wrinkled his nose. "I don't suppose you have a first-aid kit."

If he'd been looking anywhere else, Akechi would have missed the slight hesitation that crossed Kurusu's face. It rapidly shifted back into the infuriatingly blank expression he usually wore. "I do. It's upstairs," His pause seemed to stretch on into eternity, or perhaps it was the blood sticking his dress shirt to his back and pooling at the small of his back that simply ground his sense of time to a halt. "I've...got some spare clothes you could probably wear too."

There were a few questions nagging at the detective. Such as why Kurusu had spare clothes in a cafe, or more pressingly, why he seemed to have made the quite interesting shift from amused and daresay _human_ to dead-eyed staring. Unsettling as it may be, Kurusu didn't give him much time to ponder as he stiffly made his way to the stairs, only pausing for a moment at the bottom to nod that Akechi should follow.

One question at least was answered when he crossed the threshold to the attic—or, rather, Kurusu's room. For the most part it was well kept, save for the motes of dust that occasionally crossed his field of view. A work desk sat in the corner with pliers and unidentifiable tools strewn upon the surface, thin metal cords of some kind curled haphazardly on the wood and stretching their wiry fingers to the floor. An uncomfortable, weathered couch sat along the wall, with an ancient CRT television looming over it on a rickety table beside it. Opposite was a near-bare shelf, aside from the small collection of well-worn books stacked messily on top (Akechi couldn't make out the titles from here, but a thin burgundy book caught his attention), followed by a peculiarly well-kept plant.

What really floored him was the _guitars_ Kurusu had strewn on across his room. A polished mahogany acoustic guitar sat regally next to the work desk—belatedly Akechi realized those were guitar strings on his desk and not a suspicious amount of piano wire. A battered, dull red Stratocaster was strewn on his bed, along with what seemed like an excessive amount of guitar picks and a chestnut bass guitar propped up at the end of it.

Only one had a stand: the glimmering black electric guitar next to the plant. The metal, the plastic thing that seemed to be present on every guitar Akechi had ever seen, the dials, they were all black. Red shone through holes in the body of it, along with a blood red scrawling, illegible word along the side.

It didn't take a detective to guess that Kurusu might be a guitar player. There was something about that, though, that nagged at him. He didn't seem the type.

Kurusu knelt beside his unmade bed nestled in the corner, rummaging beneath it for a moment before pulling a large black strongbox from the depths. He brushed a shower of picks from his bed before patting the space unoccupied by the guitar with an impassive expression. Akechi hesitated for a moment, eyes still stuck on the shadowy instrument before making his way over.

He sat delicately on the end, grimacing as the movement tugged the splinters wedged in his skin, far enough away for Kurusu to click his tongue. "You need to be closer for me to patch you up." A pause. "And take off your shirt."

It briefly crossed Akechi's mind that he was in a stranger's room, shucking off his shirt and—he'd never admit it under normal circumstances—vulnerable. It would be so easy for someone, anyone, to simply have him disappear. Murder him, tear him apart limb from limb, peel his flesh from his bones. No one knew he was here. No one would notice he was gone—

"You play guitar, Kurusu?"

A glance back at him digging through the obnoxious first-aid kit revealed that Kurusu had noticed the nervous, near frantic tone to his voice. Slate grey eyes watched him, hands stilled and buried in bandages. At first, he simply looked blank, unreadable. It almost unsettled Akechi more until a small, apologetic smile spread across Kurusu's face as he resumed his search.

"The great detective strikes again." His voice was light, airy (and cheeky) as he gave a tiny chuckle. Akechi frowned, narrowing his eyes; Kurusu barked out a shameless laugh, holding up hands full of gauze and tweezers in mock surrender. "Yes, I do. Now face forward, you've got...a lot of wood in your back."

Doing as he was told, Akechi let his eyes roam the room again. It was far more lived-in than his was. Bare, white walls, minimal furniture, and kept immaculately clean. It was always quiet in his apartment, the silence hanging unsettlingly in the air like an oppressive, never-ending fog. Some days, it was tolerable. Silence and productivity, under most circumstances, went hand in hand.

Silence some days was dangerous, though. Thoughts left festering throughout the day, the week, ached to fill the void the lack of sound created. It started slow, quiet as the hum of the air conditioner droning in the background. Slip-ups, fears, worries...they'd all ring about in his head until it drowned out all rational thought with cacophonous roars that rattled him to his core. He'd sit and claw and claw and claw at his scalp, trying to dig those thoughts out, to dump them from his skull and be rid of them. Mostly all he got from it was nauseating fistfuls blood, gumming up his nails, mixing with salty tears on his face.

Perhaps that was why he spent so much time out of his apartment. The silence was wicked, with a siren song that some days was too much to tune out.

"How long?" Akechi tried to calm his breathing. Shuddering, anxious gasps would do him no good with someone trying to fish sharp wood out of his back.

Kurusu was quiet for a moment before yanking out a splinter—the detective hissed, attempting to jump away but a steady hand on his shoulder kept him rooted firmly next to the blood red guitar beside him. Or perhaps that was simply just his blood on the guitar. He'd have to apologize to Kurusu about that later. "A while. Never took lessons or anything, just taught myself."

"Are you any good?"

It was an innocuous enough question, but Kurusu huffed indignantly behind him, tugging out another splinter with maybe a bit more force than necessary. "Of course I am." He sounded like a petulant child. A pleasant change, Akechi thought. Even the unflappable Kurusu could be brought to a stubborn pout by a jab at his ego. "What kind of question is that?"

"Forgive me," Akechi was glad the other couldn't see the mischievous grin forming on his face—it might be bad for his health, considering. "You simply seem the type to show up to a party with a guitar and unending renditions of 'Wonderwall.'"

The dramatic, scandalized gasp behind him surprised him. At least Kurusu wasn't going to stab him with a scalpel anytime soon. "I would never!"

The two fell into an easy silence after that, punctuated by the odd whine every now and again as Kurusu would pull one splinter after another. Aside from the stinging pain, there was something strangely soothing about his presence. Like a safe house in a storm, a place (or person, as it may be) of respite. In Kurusu's presence, the detective's runaway thoughts slowed some, clunking awkwardly and out of place as they rattled half-heartedly through his head. Easy to pluck them from his train of thought and toss them aside.

It was only when Akechi heard the slight rustling of bandages that he spoke up again, much softer now. "Why did you start?"

Kurusu froze for a moment, however brief, before letting out a heaving, quivering sigh—the detective's brows furrowed as he turned back to face the other. The solemn, aching look on his face was horribly out of place as he stared down at his bloodied hands. Akechi almost regretted asking; there was something deeply unnerving seeing Kurusu’s hands doused in red and face crumpled in quiet grief. A few times, he’d open his mouth to say something before snapping it shut again. After a couple tries, Kurusu finally responded. “I needed an outlet. Something to shut my head up for a while.”

A sentiment Akechi could relate to—typically throwing himself head-first into a case, filling his head with facts, evidence from someone else’s life, anyone but _his_ …was the only way to catch his breath from relentless, chattering nothings. Though, he hadn’t expected _Kurusu_ to be aboard that same runaway train.

From the look on his face, Akechi could tell this wasn’t something to push. Not now, not while they were essentially strangers—

Akechi sat bolt-upright, eyes ablaze with realization. How had he not _noticed_ before that in their conversations, there was one glaring absence?

“Kurusu… How did you know my name?”

Kurusu blinked once. Then twice. At the very least, he seemed completely stunned out of his depressive reverie. “This isn’t the first time we’ve met, Akechi.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Alternate ending: Kurusu blinked once. Then twice. "You're a famous detective you moron."]
> 
> i think this is gonna be the only single-scene chapter i'll ever write horg
> 
> no but seriously guys cold-turkey writer is the best thing but also the worst. i accidentally had a song on loop when i activated it and. couldn't change it. nothing motivates you to write faster like having a 1,5min song on loop
> 
> i should be able to write a bit more over the next couple days, but after this week they might slow down a bit...getting a cintiq at the end of the month and i'm gonna be focusing on drawing for a while. but! i do actually have short comics drafted based on this au/fic thing. so. might post those in my stead.
> 
> as always, catch me on tumblr/twitter @ lithalos to hear me yell about life


	4. draw the line

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And yet, more coffee in unexpected ways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm sorry it took so long to get this out! i had the first 1k written out and then got. stuck. and also work was kicking my ass so there's that
> 
> (unbeta'd and my crops are dying)

Akechi drank an awful lot of coffee--that was the first thing Akira had noticed about the detective, and the most obvious. It wasn't unusual to find him sat primly at Leblanc's bar, surrounded by casefiles and scraps of hastily torn paper with a half empty cup pressed to his lips. The look on Sojiro's face, the mix between muted concern and fatherly amusement, tended to be a good indication that it wasn't the first cup.

There was something so honest about Akechi's presence in Leblanc; on television, he always had a layer of film, molded plastic clinging to his face until it was almost unrecognizable. His answers were bland and lifeless, almost robotic in their delivery, and yet no one noticed. The hosts would all croon over his predictably lovable answers and was fairly universally adored by the public. In Leblanc, though, he dropped the pretenses. Whether due to Sojiro's (admittedly harsh) influence or a sense of ease that Akechi could find nowhere else, the mask came off over a cup of coffee. The steam would writhe about his face, and it was only then Akechi would let slip flashes of emotion--confusion, fury, and most notably, an oddly competitive grin.

The first time Akira had actually been the one to brew it for him, it was clear Akechi was not fully awake...or even wholly present. He had offered one word answers to Akira's questions, turning taking his order into a quiz show game of frustrating proportions. Eventually, after prying it from him like teeth, the detective had nodded groggily in appreciation as Akira set the fresh cup of Kona down—steamed two percent milk with foam, no sugar, and just a slight dash of cinnamon.

Akechi had nursed it for a while in dazed contentment, until his head began drooping and eyes slipped closed...and he slowly dozed off on a stack of unopened files. Akira considered waking him until he saw just how...peaceful Akechi looked, snoozing on the cafe counter.

There were a few times after that he'd taken over for Sojiro well after Akechi had consumed himself thoroughly with work. A fly on the wall, for all the detective noticed. Akira didn't mind; he'd just quietly refilled the cup as the nights wore on, watching Akechi's tired chestnut eyes rove over piles of notes, as the detective toyed idly with the edges of his ever-present gloves.

Akira had been content with simply observing for a while, but as time went on, he'd found little quirks and habits that he had found—for lack of a better word—endearing. The detective, when stumped, would tap a gloved finger on the counter and mutter incessantly (Akira had never been able to quite catch what he was saying). The eureka moments Akechi would have, where something would just click, he'd grin triumphantly before rewarding himself with savoring a sip of coffee. Otherwise, while leisurely skimming through endless documents, he'd run a finger around the rim of the cup. His focused face was, much to Akira's dismay, terribly adorable.

Akira had never mustered up the courage to start a conversation beyond 'the usual?' though, and that certainly didn't help his growing (and frankly unsettling) crush. Honestly, it shouldn't surprise him that someone who could get so wrapped up in their thoughts, in work, would forget just how many cups of that Kona blend Akira himself had made.

Still stung a bit, though.

The only thing that almost made it worth mentioning was the astonished stare Akechi was currently levelling him with. Almost.

"Do you really not remember how much coffee I've made you?"

After a moment of his mouth hanging agape, Akechi cleared his throat and tried to glue together the shattered remains of his composure. It was ineffective, at best. "I...can't say that I do. I apologize."

Akira let out a slow, deep sigh. "I'm not surprised. You're usually pretty in the zone by the time I start."

Akechi winced. "I'm sorry. It's a bad habit of mine."

With a shrug, Akira nodded back at the first aid kit. Years of practice kept the irrational hurt from his face, but it festered in his heart away from Akechi’s prying eyes—emotions like that were unsightly at best. "It's fine. I still have to bandage you up, so turn around."

The detective gave him a withering, guilty smile before following Akira's orders, shoulders stiff and hands clenched tightly at his knees. They fell into an uncomfortable silence after that--the only sound in the attic was Akira peeling bandages and the occasional hiss from Akechi.

What a way to ruin the mood.

When Akechi spoke again, however, the discussion had slipped unnaturally back to music. A dangerous topic to broach with the detective investigating his case. It was clear from the unnaturally light tone to his voice, however, that he seemed to be trying to steer the conversation back to friendly waters. "What kind of guitar is that?"

Akira knew which one he meant, but decided to be pointedly obstinate. "Which one?"

The unamused expression leaked into Akechi’s voice—if Akira could see his face, he was certain he’d find a nonplussed frown and a judicious stare. The detective was not in a mood to dance, it would seem. “The black one. It’s very...unique.”

And just like that, Akira’s blood ran cold. His hands stilled bandaging the detective’s back, and for once his stoic expression shattered into one of unadulterated fear.

He’d forgotten Akechi had been to the last concert. 

There were two possibilities. Either Akechi had been too out of it to notice the striking similarities between the  _ same guitar _ , or he was being coy. Playing with his food before devouring it like a wicked cat. Neither option made Akira’s unsettlingly rapid heartbeat slow any.

Two could play at being coy, if that were the case. Regaining his composure, Akira stood and made his way towards the blueshawk. After a moment of hesitation, he freed it from the stand and simply held it.

The rush he got from even  _ holding _ Arsène astounded him every time—never mind the euphoric thrill that sang through his veins when he  _ played _ him. Now though, the rush mixed sickeningly with an uneasy trepidation as he made his way back to Akechi. The detective watched with keen, fascinated red-brown eyes, a curious smile playing at his lips as Akira sat beside him.

Unique was probably the right word for Arsène; Akira was quite confident (and proud, thank you very much) that there simply was no other guitar truly like him. He was nearly pitch black—the neck, the body, even the bridge were all dark as a thunderous, overcast night. The only flashes of color were the red shining through the hollow body’s  _ f  _ curves, and the scribbled name at the seam between the neck and body.

Akira plucked idly at one of the strings. Out of tune, it would seem. Perhaps it had something to do with his nerves. “It’s a one-of-a-kind. I had a friend of mine make it.” Not  _ technically  _ a lie—he would consider Arsène a friend. A friend who also happened to turn into a guitar. Nothing unusual there.

If Akechi noticed anything off about his tone, he didn’t point it out; instead, he seemed to be ogling the guitar with a mix of awe and confusion. A gloved hand reached towards it for a brief moment before the detective seemed to snap out of it, yanking his hand back and glancing sheepishly at Akira. “My apologies.”

Akira shrugged, trying to ignore the burning, blistering pride he felt at stunning the unflappable detective. “I don’t blame you, but honestly even I shouldn’t be holding it right now.”

The pout Akechi shot at him almost made him laugh—it was almost the same put-out frown he was levelled with when cutting off the detective’s caffeine fix. Not a frequent occasion, as Akira was far too much of an enabler to truly do so often. Some days, however, Akechi would begin to twitch and become restless as he neared the end of his endless cups of coffee. He’d coil with energy his body couldn’t seem to handle, tapping his foot or bouncing his leg incessantly as his head wilted with sleep. There were times when Akira knew he had to draw the line; this was one. “I’d hoped to hear it.”

“Akechi.”

The detective shined a blinding smile at him. Playing the charming card, apparently. “Yes?”

“I have blood on my hands.” Akira stood, making his way back to the stand and wincing as he caught sight of a glistening red that  _ shouldn’t _ be on his guitar. Looks like the weekly polishing ritual was happening early.  “Honestly, not super great for the strings.”

Akechi looked mildly put out as Akira returned to his side, but sighed in resignation. “I suppose not.”

And for the second time that night, Akira showed Akechi a genuine, if not a bit small, smile.

“Soon, though. I promise.”

* * *

 

There were no times Akechi could clearly recall that he opened the door to the dreary, bare apartment with anything less than a sinking dread and contempt. It served as a constant reminder of not only what he lacked, but of what he was: empty. A home reflects the owner, and he never had liked what this bare-bones monstrosity had to say about him.

It had necessities—a bed, food if he could be bothered to run to the grocery store, and a place he could retreat to at the end of the day. In truth, the only purpose it really had was housing him as he slept for a few meager hours, before he stumbled out that same door again and threw himself back into his work. And truly, work was  _ his _ only purpose, the only thing that kept him on the brink of sanity. The only thing that truly justified his continued existence.

Tonight, he dropped his suitcase at the door and felt neither the sting of anxious existentialism, nor roaring frustration. An odd occurrence, and odder still was the soft bliss that seemingly took its place.

Though, he supposed as he tugged awkwardly at a borrowed white shirt adorned in stars that smelled of coffee and comfort, perhaps not the oddest thing to happen tonight.

Ignoring the light switch altogether (what would he run into?  _ Air _ ?), Akechi headed straight for his unmade bed and flopped face-first into it. The only comfort he held in this apartment, the only sign he  _ existed _ was his messy, soft, fluffy blanket adorned bed. As he sank slowly into the mattress, feeling the weight of his exhaustion finally leave him, he sighed and let sleep gently overtake him.

Akechi wasn’t sure how long he had slept a loud meow jolted him from slumber. His head swam as he sat bolt upright, eyes scanning the dark room in blind confusion before a blinking light from the floor caught his attention.

Ah, his phone must have fallen out of his pocket as he slept. Tapping the screen to life, he saw an unread notification.

 

**K [02:34] : you can keep the shirt by the way**

 

The detective blinked blearily at the phone for a moment before registering it was likely Kurusu. After all, that was the only person Akechi has borrowed clothing from recently—he appreciated the thought, even if the shirt was a bit more garish than his typical wardrobe. Watching Kurusu dig fruitlessly through a box of endless jeans, jackets, and binders, it was no wonder he tossed Akechi the first tee-shirt he could find.

Akechi had no intentions of keeping it, however, when he pulled it on over tender bandaging.

 

**Sent [02:36] : I will wash it and return it to you as soon as I’m able.**

 

Akechi frowned, a nagging thought ringing in the back of his head.

 

**Sent [02:37] : Though, I don’t remember giving you my phone number.**

 

There was a few moments of silence; Akechi nearly lulled himself back to sleep when the phone meowed once more. It would seem that was Kurusu’s ringtone, but Akechi was most certainly  _ not  _ the culprit of that.

 

**K [02:42] : oh you didn’t**

**K [02:42] : i got it off of a friend**

**K [02:43] : figured i could tell you to keep the shirt that way :)**

 

He could feel the gears turning in his head as he processed this information. Honestly, it didn’t bode well that Akechi couldn’t figure out exactly  _ who _ could have given his number to Kurusu, and it made his stomach turn a little bit when he considered perhaps it wasn’t gotten  _ reputably _ .

 

**Sent [02:45] : Who?**

**Sent [02:45] : And I don’t intend on keeping this shirt.**

**K [02:46] : why you look good in it**

 

Akechi’s face flared with heat, but his phone meowed again.

 

**K [02:47] : and if you must know, it was makoto**

 

Ah. Niijima Sae’s sister. Akechi  _ did  _ have her number from past group projects in cram school, but he wasn’t aware that Kurusu was friends with her. Goes to know just how much the detective knew about him—next to nothing.

 

**Sent [02:49] : Next question.**

**Sent [02:50] : How on earth did you change your ringtone in my phone.**

**K [02:51] : you need to change your pin**

**K [02:51] : leaving it the default 1234 is lame**

 

Kurusu had a point. This wasn’t his work phone, however, so he’d found little reason to change it. There was nothing to hide on this one, at least.

 

**Sent [02:52] : Noted.**

**Sent [02:52] : Why a cat?**

**K [02:52] : i like cats. people say i am a cat.**

**Sent [02:53] : Funny.**

**K [02:54] : i guess**

**K [02:55] : you could say i’m a bit of a joker**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you're wondering, Arsène is a Gibson Blueshawk with the full Maestro bridge because. well there's no reason other than I have one and that thing sounds glorious. so. it also looks real cool. fight me.
> 
> sat down to write today and then something pretty. serious. happened so i'm hoping the awful way i'm feeling didn't seep into the writing too much. it's got kind of a downcast tone most of the time anyways but. probably not like the way i'm feeling. anyways. this chapter didn't work well at all but i've got plansTM for the next couple.
> 
> things hopefully will get a bit more interesting next chapter or two, but i initially started this as a sort of character study thing so i'm trying to keep to that a little bit.
> 
> anyhow. sleep time for me. hopefully will get the next chapter done tomorrow since i've got loads of free time.


	5. the fool

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A game of cat and mouse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I forgot to link it last chapter, [here](https://www.sheltonsguitars.com/images/2015/05-18-2015/gibson-blueshawk/big/bigDSCN0046.jpg) is the guitar Arsène is based off of. 
> 
> anyways didn't actually expect to finish this when i did but oh well here it is anyways. it's also just a tad longer than normal but that's ok. probably.
> 
> (unbeta'd and loud and proud anyways)

“You absolute  _ idiot! _ ”

Akira ducked as yet another packet of strings sailed by his head, huffing indignantly as he attempted to return to polishing the detective’s blood off of his guitar. “I said I was sorry, didn’t I?” Several times, actually, but rarely was once enough on any occasion.

The eyes behind enormous round glasses narrowed dangerously as Futaba flopped backwards onto his bed with a scowl. She’d run out of (his) guitar strings to throw, it would seem. “You  _ really _ couldn’t help making the Joker pun? To the  _ detective _ ?”

Ah, yes. One of Akira’s finer moments, surely. “What can I say, I like to live dangerously.” He replied simply, rubbing absently at a stubborn spot of red and trying desperately not to let his thoughts linger on the truth of that statement. Now wasn’t the time to run down that rabbithole.

“You’re going to live dangerously six feet underground if you’re not careful.” Futaba grumbled, hugging Akira’s pillow close to her chest. A glance back revealed a nervous, almost fearful gleam in eyes she refused to meet with his. Her hands shook as they clutched white-knuckled at his pillowcase. “And you’re not  _ being  _ careful, Ki.”

As always, she was right; he’d either find himself locked behind thick steel bars or taking a permanent and potentially painful dirt nap if he played his cards wrong. At the rate he was going, both possibilities were unnervingly likely with just how often he was foolishly showing his hand right now. Even just approaching the detective was a risk, and now Akira was  _ befriending _ him? Letting hints of his identity slip in cheeky jokes? The gamble was high, and the payoff woefully small.

Yet he kept throwing himself headfirst into another bad bet without a second thought, chasing that feeling of  _ being chased _ relentlessly. A single-minded fixation on the idea of the detective he was drawing nearer to quickly closing in on him. The thrill of pursuit, feverish heart-pounding adrenaline at nearly being caught, at nearly  _ losing, _ was intoxicating. To say he was addicted to the rush would be an understatement—Akira was no longer sure he could live  _ without  _ it. A vice, one could say. 

Part of him, the excessively morbid part, wonders if he keeps flippantly betting his life in the hopes he’d finally lose. He’d die doing what he feels is right, fighting against the rotten and corrupt society around him until it finally snuffs him out as well. Kicking and screaming was how he always knew he’d go, tearing with bloodied hands as much of the crumbling, foul foundations of the social scourge down as he could. A fitting, grand end for the leader of the Phantom Thieves of Heart; a blaze of glory he could bask in with his final moments.

Perhaps then someone would finally remember him.

Akira’s hands stilled on Arsène. He shouldn’t be dragging the other Thieves into his self-destructive behaviors, especially when the stakes were so high. Just because he was content with (or looking  _ forward _ to, his cynical mind corrected) being caught—with  _ dying _ —didn’t mean the others shared his catastrophic lack of self preservation. “You’re right. I’m not being careful, but you know as well as I do I…can’t really help it.”

The silence that followed itched under Akira’s skin—he couldn’t  _ stand _ the silence. It set his nerves on fire with anxious energy and ground his rational thinking to a halt. His hands twitched as a whole lot of nothing filled the air, the pounding blood in his ears drowning out the rhythmic sound of Futaba’s breathing, the howling wind outside the window, the distant clunking rumbles of the trains and cars—

The silence drowned out  _ everything _ that could remind him he wasn’t alone.

Finally— _ finally _ —Futaba spoke and shattered the crushing nothingness engulfing the room. “I know, Ki. Just…” She sighed shakily. “I can’t lose you. Not like this. Just…talk to me next time, okay? You’re usually okay when you talk it through.”

Akira offered her a small, broken smile over his shoulder. “I’ll try.”

He did always hate lying to her like this.

* * *

 

The morning brought with it soft light streaming through Akechi’s uncurtained windows, as well as an overwhelming ache coursing through his back. Despite the discomfort he’d felt occasionally throughout the night though, he found himself feeling...considerably more well rested than normal. He chalked it up to blood loss and refused to entertain the thought it might have more to do with the slight smell of coffee, spice, and home that’s now permeated into his blankets. It was far too early to be juggling complicated emotions like this.

A cursory glance at his phone revealed however that it was, much to his dismay, not morning as he’d initially thought. Nearly half past noon. Akechi couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten over five hours of sleep, let alone  _ eight.  _ Generally, his work nights dragged on into work mornings then dragged into work nights again. Before long, his eyes inevitably became impossible to keep open and he’d reluctantly collapse into bed. Even then, he’d set no less than ten alarms for four hours later and start the cycle over again, fueling himself with unhealthy amounts of coffee and determination. The exhaustion that seeped into his bones, weighed on his limbs like he was submerged deep under pitch black water, was worth it in the end. Anything to keep his thoughts—his  _ nightmares _ —at bay for just a  _ little _ longer.

One small mercy, though, was the  _ lack  _ of notifications on his phone; Niijima must not have needed him for anything today, otherwise he  _ definitely _ wouldn’t have slept peacefully through the night. She had a nasty habit of quite literally calling until the recipient answers. Honestly, she was like a much more annoying version of his alarm clock, and arguably more effective.

Well, whatever. Even if she didn’t need him, didn’t mean he wouldn’t still work anyways. Not like he had much else to do.

First things first though…coffee.

* * *

 

Sojiro had stopped looking surprised to see Akechi stroll in after the second time when it had become clear it would be a regular occurrence. It had become rather apparent in his first visit, when Akechi discovered the old man made possibly the best coffee in Tokyo—and had few reservations with serving him ruinous amounts of it. From then on, the prim and proper detective would sit at the bar, start off with bland, fake pleasantries before making an absolute mess of the countertops and digging into what usually turned into many, many cups of coffee.

Today, however, the routine was thrown out the window—Akechi couldn’t be bothered to do much more than brush his teeth, tie his hair back, and rush out the door with his laptop bag in tow. Akechi became pointedly aware of the fact he was  _ still _ wearing Kurusu’s shirt when he caught sight of the the dumbstruck expression on the old man’s face. He offered a bewildered Sojiro a paltry imitation of a smile before settling into one of the booths, laptop on the table joined shortly by a cup of Kona.

After a few moments of trying to coax the weathered machine to life, Akechi was finally able to open his web browser and begin the researching phase anew. He’d been looking at the Phantom Thieves as  _ criminals _ , consuming himself with the facts of each case put together by himself and the rest of the investigative team. This whole time, Akechi had been approaching this like a detective, but clearly that hadn’t gotten him anywhere worthwhile. He needed a change of pace if he was going to crack this case sometime in the next century.

Now, he was going to try to see things from  _ another _ perspective. The Phantom Thieves themselves.

Their website was as showy and obnoxious as the Thieves; a loud, bright red filled the page with black and white accents littered across it. Their flashy logo was front and center, with navigation links in a nearly unreadable font on either side. ‘Members,’  ‘Mission Statement,’ ‘Forum’... The one that stood out to the detective, though, was ‘Listen.’

Surely, they wouldn’t have their music just…on the site, right?

As it would turn out, they would and they did. A list full of tiny web players slowly popped up on his screen, each with predictably campy song names—Beneath the Mask?  _ Layer Cake _ ? Who  _ thought  _ of these?

Finally, one caught his eye: The Fool’s Ballad. It was true the name was one of few that weren’t  _ terribly _ ostentatious, but this was the only song with an attached description below. It took a moment of squinting at the garish red and illegible text before the detective could understand it.

_ ‘For all those who struggle and still find the will to fight. _

_ -Joker’ _

Curiosity burned through Akechi; he clumsily fished a tangled pair of cheap headphones from his bag and plugged them into his laptop. The rational part of his brain urged him to stop—the last time he’d listened to the Thieves, most of the night had become an unrecognizable blur in his memories, punctuated by an overwhelming feeling of unease. His inquisitive nature had him pushing ‘Play.’

Whatever he’d been expecting—loud guitar, thrumming chords, thunderous drums—was absolutely not what he got. After a brief second of staticky silence, a quiet, deliberate acoustic guitar began floating through his headphones. Melodic and deeply mournful, softly plucking along until he heard the artist suck in a shaky breath.

And then Joker began singing.

His voice sounded so  _ broken _ , wistful as he sang out words of a damaged man. He sang of rampaging thoughts and rampant inadequacies, a mind that just wouldn’t quiet down. Humming out lyrics of doubt, indecision, and most notably...letting go and finding a will to still hold on. Of finding reasons to stay that quiver and wane, leaving a bitter emptiness in its wake.

When the song finally petered out, Joker’s beaten, breathy voice lingered in Akechi’s head; his heart  _ hurt _ in a way he couldn’t find words to explain. After a moment of just staring blankly at his computer screen, he noticed water droplets on his keyboard and reached up to the tears on his face.

Whatever he’d been expecting of the Phantom Thieves, this was not it. The detective, for a brief moment, had caught a glimpse at the man behind the mask and saw someone just as broken as he.

Akechi wasn’t sure which was worse—accepting the Thieves were more than criminals, or the sparks of sympathy towards them he was now fostering.

Still, there was something oddly familiar about that voice; it brought back memories of Kurusu with his hands coated in blood and eyes distant and full of anguish. He’d seen a rare moment of Kurusu off-guard as the boy contemplated his reasons for playing the same instruments Akechi had found to be a waste of time.

_ “I needed an outlet. Something to shut my head up for a while.” _

Akechi’s brow furrowed. The nagging feeling he was  _ missing _ something ate at him as he pulled the headphones from his ears.

An outlet, huh?

* * *

 

When Akira begrudgingly rolled out of bed at nearly two in the afternoon, he emphatically avoided Morgana’s piercing, judgemental stare and made his way down the stairs to the café. The countless notifications on his phone from the Thieves and the rest of the merry band of confidants could wait until he’d gotten a good cup of coffee and some curry in his stomach.

As he reached the bottom, however, any plans (even if they were vague notions of just  _ eating _ ) went straight out the window as he caught sight of Akechi slouched over a laptop in one of the booths with headphones on. The detective’s usually neat hair was messily pulled away from his face into a ponytail—but more importantly, Akira’s heart swelled as he saw Akechi still wearing the shirt he’d lent (and given) him.

To hell with being careful, then.

At first, he approached with the intention of joining the detective, but one look at his face made Akira pause. Akechi looked…well,  _ heartbroken _ , hand pressed to his lips as if he were biting back a sob. It was when tears began flowing down his face that Akira felt a burning need to turn and go back up the stairs he came from to give the detective some semblance of privacy.

But no. Akira stayed rooted to the spot, watching as Akechi wept silently behind his laptop.

The seconds dragged on into minutes until after an eternity, Akechi pulled the headphones from his ears and raised his hand to feel the tears streaked across his face. He looked dazed for a moment, before his brows furrowed and he slammed the laptop shut.

Sojiro coughing from behind the counter startled Akira out of the stupor he’d fallen into watching the detective cry; with a raised brow and an unamused frown, Sojiro nodded at a steaming plate of curry and cup of Blue Mountain on the counter. There was something oddly resigned in his bored expression—Akira rubbed his neck sheepishly before grabbing the food and turning to slide into the booth across from Akechi.

The detective seemed to regard him with a strangely suspicious look that nearly stopped Akira’s heart in his chest until it made way to a small, real smile. His crimson eyes still watered with grief that twisted into a withering, pitying look as Akechi continued to stare.

Akira shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “...good morning…” He mumbled before shoving curry into his mouth; anything to distract from the unwavering eye-contact Akechi was trying to make. Emphasis on  _ trying _ —Akira’s eyes were uncharacteristically everywhere  _ but _ meeting the detective’s gaze.

At that, Akechi barked out an odd laugh. “It’s afternoon, Kurusu.”

Akira let his eyes meet Akechi’s briefly and felt his blood turn to ice in his veins. Akechi was eyeing him with that same knowing, triumphant smirk he wore over completed case files and a cup of Kona.

When the world finally came crashing back in on him, his heart started hammering doubletime as he schooled his expression back to carefully neutral. Not that it mattered, if the twitch at the corner of Akechi’s mouth was anything to go by. “I’m not a morning person.” Akira aimed for casual, bored even, and landed somewhere between strained and nervous.

He’d been envisioning this day since he learned Akechi was chasing after him—dreaming of the day the detective would level him with a perceptive stare and a cavalier, sharp grin. It kept him up at night and plagued his sleep with nightmares fuelled by an overactive imagination and an unhealthy amount of stress. Akira had always felt it was inevitable, anticipating the day when Akechi’s smiles would turn predatory, the tone in his voice proud and victorious.

He hadn’t expected it to be over coffee and curry, with Akechi wearing one of Akira’s shirts as his own and drying tears on his face.

The detective appeared to be playing along—he lifted his cup of Kona to his lips, parting them into a Cheshire grin as he chuckled darkly. “Lots of nightly extracurriculars then?”

It was clear what Akechi was doing; he was trying to goad Akira into making a mistake, find cracks in one of many masks he wore so well. Akira fought to keep his own smile from his face, trying to keep from thinking of this as nothing more than a game. An awful game of cat and mouse Akira was likely destined to lose. “It does take a while to clean blood off a guitar, Detective.” Akira’s tone was light, glib, as he sipped the Blue Mountain, keeping his expression as blank as his exhilaration would allow.

That seemed to catch Akechi off guard. His eyes widened, lips stilling on the rim of his coffee mug and smile slipping from his face. After a moment of silence, Akechi’s brows knit together, eyes conflicted and cast downward. Akira ached for those crimson eyes to return to him, longed for the attention once more.

“The Fool’s Ballad…” The detective began, voice little more than a whisper. “What does it mean?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HMMM canon who needs canon not me
> 
> anyways who am i projecting onto akechi or akira the world may never know


	6. lie to me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lie to me sweetly, look me in the eye and whisper promises you can't keep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well hello
> 
> in case you're wondering, and since i keep forgetting to post this kind of stuff with the chapter (oops), [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0zTeVgEv1dM) is the kind of song joker was singing. if i'm feeling particularly artsy i may just. write the actual song? but for now, this is what it's supposed to sound like, at least.
> 
> anyways this chapter is a mess but what else is new i'm an artist not a writer rip
> 
> thought i'd also thank everyone for commenting!! i try to at least read all of them (if i don't respond, it's usually because i'm at work and can't be on my phone for long periods of time) but i appreciate all of them!! y'all keep me going hardcore. so. thank you.
> 
> (unbeta'd as always)

Akechi considered himself no fool. He’d slipped up occasionally, sure. Horrible, disgusting, reprehensible missteps haunted his every breath and clung to every thought like caked on dirt. Impossible to be entirely rid of, no matter how hard he scrubbed and cleaned and _clawed_ until skin ran red with blood. Mistakes that kept him from peaceful sleep, creeping upon him in the shadows and looming over him until his heart stopped in his chest and breath caught in his throat.

Yes, he’d made plenty of mistakes...but Akechi was sure he was not _truly_ a fool. The choices he’d made, the miscalculations and the condemnable actions he’s taken had very good reasons at their core. Survival. Revenge. Before now, nothing he’d done wasn’t completely thought out, weighed, and decided upon with cold logic and unshakable reason.

Attending the concert with Niijima had been a momentary lapse in the cool rationale he stuck to—desperation fixed itself to him as the Thieves time and time again slipped through his hands and dropped off the map until their next target. Failure and resentment caused him to lose his cool, conviction (and if he were to be honest with himself, pride) boiling in his chest as he threw caution to the wind chasing the Thieves. He’d gone on a whim, the first time in recent memory he could remember doing so.

A mistake, he’d thought at the time. Akechi knew now it had been the breakthrough he’d needed.

Though the night was blurred by the thudding in his head and the sweet-smelling smoke searing his lungs, there had been something that _nagged_ at him. It stuck with him, the uncomfortable, infuriating feeling of being right on the _edge_ of a breakthrough ever since Kurusu had offered his help, hand, and medicine.

Ever since Kurusu had levelled him with stormy grey eyes clouded with concern and laden with odd understanding. Even hidden behind thick frames and unruly curls, they were striking. Noticeable.

Memorable.

Peeking from behind a domino mask and a smug smirk, those steel eyes bored into him. Watching him, _taunting him._

 _“Catch me if you can, Detective.”_ They seemed to say as sharp teeth parted lips into a wild and rebellious cheshire grin. _“Come and find me.”_

It made it that much more insulting when those same eyes met his own and denials fell from Kurusu’s—Joker’s—dishonest mouth.

“I couldn’t tell you.” Kurusu almost sounded bored, as if a moment ago his facade hadn’t cracked and cold surprise hadn’t flicked across his ever-impassive face. Akechi’s blood boiled as Kurusu sipped blandly at his coffee, eyes blank and indifferent as they watched the detective. Taunted him. “Suppose you’d have to ask who wrote it.”

Akechi fought back his simmering rage and put on a pleasant, plastic smile. Kurusu must believe him a fool. A fool who would one day bring this damned arrogant thief to his knees, he thinks bitterly. “You may have a point...though, the voice was oddly familiar.” He made a show of tapping his lips, fighting to keep the smile on his face gentil and determined to keep the snarl of fury from shredding his carefully formed mask. “I wonder why that could be?”

Kurusu gave a callous shrug and took a bite of the rapidly cooling curry before him. His eyes dropped to the table, chewing slowly as if mulling over words. Finally, the thief—Akechi had no doubts he truly _was_ the leader of those repulsive, nauseating Phantom Thieves of Heart, all he needed now was _proof_ —hummed softly as he propped his head on his hand. Ashy eyes returned to him once more, though sparking with _something_ Akechi couldn’t quite place. They were almost...somber?

“Why do you ask about that song?” Kurusu finally said, voice so soft the detective nearly missed it. The thief turned his head away, a distant, melancholy look filling the void intentional blankness had left. If this insufferable idiot wasn’t a vigilante running outside the law, twisting people’s minds until they were no longer themselves—good _or_ bad—Akechi would almost feel sorry for him. He could feel twinges of guilt, of worry, wrenching his gut anyways.

He did his best to stamp it out.

When Akechi didn’t reply, Kurusu’s brows furrowed, blunt, short nails digging into the skin near his lips. “Of all the songs you know—of all the songs they’ve made—why is the one they never performed the one you ask about?”

Akechi had no response; he opened his mouth to tell of a broken, sorrowful voice that had gotten through to him. Of words of fears and mistakes, of doubts and uncertainty, that twisted his heart and wormed their way into his thoughts.

And snapped his mouth shut.

* * *

When Akira flopped face first into his bed, (and naturally a few guitar picks he’d lost within the depths of his covers weeks ago,) it only took a few seconds to feel small paws wandering along his back. With claws.

“What was that?!” Morgana crowed loudly, digging sharp cat-nails into Akira’s back and drawing a wince from the thief that went unseen. “He _definitely_ knows who you are!”

“Thanks, Morgana. Couldn’t tell.” He muttered, muffled by the layers of fabric his face was currently buried in. Honestly, Akira _absolutely_ didn’t need Morgana’s endless nagging right now. It was two thirty in the afternoon, and here he was, moping and already aching to slip off into sleep again. The cat would be proud of that, at least, if his endless griping about Akira’s sleep habits were anything to go by.

“We have to tell the others!” The cat kneaded at his back, frantic and urgent. Akira shook his head before reaching back to push Morgana off of him and rolled over. For a moment, his eyes lingered on the musty wooden support beams above him, watching dust motes float past his field of view and glitter in warm sunlight. It was soothing, watching the world slowly move without him.

He sighed; there wasn’t time to lazily stare at the ceiling, not when he was supposed to be leading this ragtag band of thieves. Not when he was responsible for keeping them safe—including from Akechi.

Akira was still honestly unsure why _he’d_ been deemed leader to begin with. Sure, he and Ryuji were the two founders of the group when they’d discovered the music they’d been playing for years suddenly had a different tune.

But as new members began joining their ranks, Akira found himself questioning if he was _really_ the one best suited to lead. Makoto was infinitely more qualified, commanding attention and demanding respect. Shrewd and thoughtful, she was usually the one to pitch realistic ideas and find solutions. Perhaps a little slow to come up with answers and her responses were fairly predictable, Akira supposes, but she was easily the most level-headed out of the group.

Futaba was definitely _smart_ enough to lead—even if her ideas were ridiculous and outlandish, generally speaking she’d be the one to actually _fix_ things when they inevitably went awry. She’d gotten them out of plenty of bad jams, and it wouldn’t be a stretch to say she’d be the one to get them out of more. Though...Futaba probably would clam up under the group’s scrutiny if she were to try to take the reigns, hiding behind Akira and peeking around his side apprehensively.

Right back to square one, then.

Ryuji definitely had the spirit, though his temper would keep him from rationale. Yusuke probably just wouldn’t want to lead—and frankly, the artist couldn’t even be trusted to consistently feed himself, let alone take on the responsibilities of the Thieves. Haru was entirely too new to fully understand how they operate as a group, and likely a bit too timid to gather everyone’s easily scattered attention. Ann was probably too busy with her modelling job to get the team’s dirty-work done, and had an unfortunate tendency to ignore her problems until they snowballed into _much bigger problems_.

Morgana, in all honesty, probably _would_ have been leader if he were actually human. He had the confidence and the Metaverse know-how—hell, he’d been the one to teach Akira and Ryuji everything while they’d made their way through Kamoshida’s castle. Truly, he’d been the obvious choice to lead. The only _real_ caveat, they’d discovered, was his complete inability to play any sort of instrument. Cat paws, and all that.

And perhaps...his confidence bordered too much on arrogance sometimes. It ground on Ryuji’s gears most noticeably, but Akira was confident it wore on some of the others on occasion as well.

Even still...Akira couldn’t help but wonder what made _him_ a better choice. Here he was, with a self-destructive thrill-seeking complex and a disturbing lack of self-preservation, and he was supposed to be responsible for _others_ ? He played with fire in the form of Ace Detective Akechi Goro, longing for of the day he’d be caught and everything would just _end_ . And yet, he was expected to usher the team in the _right_ direction?

Akira groaned, throwing his arm over his eyes. There went his motivation to do anything productive today.

* * *

Akechi avoided Leblanc for a while; frankly, just the thought of being in the same _building_ as that lying bastard pissed him off. He could lie to himself and say it was because he was just too busy gathering evidence against the thief. Or, he could say he simply hasn’t had a taste for coffee lately. (That was objectively untrue—the empty mugs of repulsive instant coffee littering the counters of his usually immaculate apartment belied that.)

If he were to be honest, though...he was afraid.

It wasn’t as if he were concerned he’d come to harm in Kurusu’s presence. Quite the opposite, actually; he’d never felt safer than beside him in the attic, listening to his quiet breathing fill the air and the soft rustling of bandages. Something about his presence put the detective at ease, soothed his frayed nerves and calmed roaring insecurities and thoughts. It was addicting, feeling a peace he’d long since accepted he’d never have.

And therein lied what he truly feared—Akechi feared getting close to who he now knows is the infamous leader of the Phantom Thieves of Heart.

Never mind the fact that one day, in all likelihood, he’d have to arrest Kurusu and the rest of their merry band. One day, Akechi would have to drag him away in handcuffs and drop him in a hole where Kurusu would never see the light of day again. The Phantom Thief would have to stand trial for everything he’d done and face the consequences...or, if Shido had his way, simply disappear with a long walk off a short pier. Neither option sat well with Akechi.

And one day, if they were ever to become friends—or something more—the detective would be forced to betray him.

Perhaps that was the real crux of the issue. Deceiving someone who had smiled so gently at him and offered his hand, lying to the same person he wished so desperately to stay beside, broke his heart.

It was a surprise to even Akechi himself, then, when he found himself standing before Leblanc’s door a month later. Chilly autumn air was nipping at Akechi’s skin, clouding his breath before his face as October kicked fall into full gear. A steaming cup of coffee sounded wonderful, but...he still hesitated to actually open the door.

Eventually, the detective shook his reluctance aside, the small chime on the door signalling his entrance and the point of no return. He shouldn’t let his irrational avoidance of Kurusu prevent him from having the best damn coffee in Tokyo. (In reality, he still couldn’t completely escape the thief and frequently had to duck into hiding at the train station. Akechi was almost certain Kurusu had spotted him more than once, but still had yet to actually approach him afterwards.)

Sojiro glanced up from his paper, brow slowly raising as Akechi stood awkwardly in the door. Then, the old man’s face broke into a gentle grin as he nonchalantly tossed his paper to the counter and placed a hand on his hip. “Welcome back, kid. The usual?”

Akechi let out a breath he hadn’t been aware he was holding—with small honest smile, he slipped into his usual seat at the bar counter and gave a curt nod.

The slightly awkward glances Sojiro gave him as he idly went about brewing a cup of Kona did not escape Akechi’s notice, however. He shifted uncomfortably at the counter, attempting to avoid eye contact until the man spoke and broke the pregnant silence. “So...any reason you’re avoiding the kid?”

The detective’s head snapped back to the old man, mortification flitting across his face before he harshly squashed it back down. Of all the things Akechi had expected to happen by arriving unannounced at the cafe once more, this certainly wasn’t it. He’d just managed coaxing his expression back to neutral when Sojiro set the piping coffee before him.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.” Akechi sniffed petulantly, busying himself with the fresh cup and keeping his eyes pointedly away from the old man. Pride kept him painfully obstinate, even if the both of them were distinctly aware of his lie.

Sojiro sighed. “You’re not fooling anyone, kiddo.” The exasperation in his voice was overpowered by a strange note of concern. “You stopped showing up after the two of you had that suspicious talk over there. The kid’s been moping around like a lost cat for a month now.” A pause, then: “I think he missed having you around.”

Akechi could swear someone thrust a dagger in his heart for all it ached. The _last_ thing he’d intended was to hurt Kurusu, even if that was all he was ever destined to do. He opened his mouth to respond, but quickly snapped it shut. What, exactly, was he to say to that? _‘Sorry for not wanting to make the inevitable betrayal more painful for your charge?’_

“I’m not trying to scold you.” Sojiro said after a few moments of another tense silence. Akechi bit back a bitter laugh—even if that wasn’t the intention, there was no escaping the nagging. “I just...worry about that kid. He seemed a bit happier around you, and I get the impression the feeling was mutual. Whatever it was, I’m sure the two of you can work it out.”

Akechi was about to reply, to offer excuses, to reassure Sojiro that it was never Kurusu’s fault he’d left when he’d heard the telltale groaning of wood off to his left. His heart stopped in his chest as he glanced over to the stunned thief frozen at the bottom of the stairs.

Sojiro glanced between the two of them before shaking his head. “I’m going out for a smoke. Take care of the shop when I’m gone.” He didn’t sound particularly annoyed—Akechi caught a glimpse of a small smile on the old man’s face as he tossed the apron onto the back counter and made his way out of the shop.

And that left him all alone with the one person he’d been going out of his way to avoid for a little over a _month_. The two simply eyed each other; Kurusu appeared to be keeping stock-still, as if to avoid spooking the detective as if he were a panicky deer.

Ironic, then, that the thief was the one looking like he were caught in the headlights.

“Well...this is awkward.” Akechi attempted a strained smile and levity in an admittedly _very_ uncomfortable standoff. It was ineffective at best, as Kurusu simply pressed his mouth into a thin line and made his way agonizingly slow around the counter. The thief paused, hand resting on his apron hung on the wall and back turned. For once, the detective was glad to not see Kurusu’s face; the hurt in his eyes was evident and twisted Akechi’s gut in a way he’d hoped a month apart would ease.

Eventually, Kurusu faced him once more. Kurusu tugged on his apron with his brows furrowed, steely eyes stuck timidly to the floor. Akechi noted with dry amusement this was the first time he’d seen the thief without his glasses. Without the enormous frames of glass between them, it was a marginally easier to get a read of his emotions—he seemed to be gathering courage for _something_ , but for what, Akechi wasn’t sure.

What he _was_ sure of, however, was that he couldn’t take another moment of this silence. With a forced chuckle, he brought the cup of coffee to his lips and took a reassuring sip before speaking. “Sojiro still makes a wonderful brew. I wonder where he learned—”

“Akechi.”

Kurusu cutting him off wasn’t part of the fill-the-silence plan; Akechi slapped on a plastic smile. “Yes?”

Again, the thief looked as if he were steeling himself. The stretch of dead air between them had Akechi aching to fill it with something, _anything_ . Silence he could handle. _Awkward_ silence, not so much.

It was quickly driving him crazy until Kurusu’s stormy eyes briefly met his own and a shy smile spread across his face. Akechi tried desperately to ignore how his heart fluttered at the soft look in his eyes, at the handsomely bashful smile on the thief’s face. Tried, and failed; his face rapidly tinged pink as Kurusu kept glancing sheepishly around the cafe.

“I’d like to play for you...if that’s all right.”

Well, that certainly wasn’t what Akechi had been expecting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELL HELLO congrats for making it through that. seriously i feel like this one was way more of a mess than normal. it might be because. i haven't slept? who knows. writing is pretty far out of my wheelhouse if i'm gonna be honest.
> 
> it's a miracle i wrote anything serious since i had [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0tdyU_gW6WE) on loop for an unfortunate majority of it
> 
> i'll probably explain how the metaverse works in this au, if not in a chapter then in an a/n when it becomes relevant. and also. the timeline is pretty close to the same, don't think i mentioned that before...only real difference that i'll mention is that the thieves are a band. rest are spoilery so i'll keep quiet for now.
> 
> i actually got stuck starting this chapter so i,, skipped writing it for a while and came back to it. and. boy howdy if i started this fic for happy merry band thieves i did not end up there. it gets real depressing like i actually kinda. cried at it a little bit but i'm also a weenie hut jr so i'm not surprised.
> 
> so basically. i have the end chapters done at least so there's a goal in mind here. one step ahead of where i usually am for writing fics anyways. updates should be pretty consistently weekly since my work schedule is actually consistent now at my new job. may update sooner rather than later, but there'll be at LEAST one a week. hopefully.
> 
> OK i'll shut up now li out


	7. a moment to breathe...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...before it falls apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this one is a little late! i got really sick the past couple days and couldn't work for very long
> 
> i've got akira's song in the works, if i finish it i'll link to it in a chapter.
> 
> (unbeta'd but what else is new)

Akechi blinked, mouth hung slightly agape as he watched Kurusu gnaw his lip and awkwardly rub the back of his neck. The thief seemed to have found something very interesting imbedded in the floor, if the way he was trying to stare holes into it was any indication. Finally, Akechi shook his head, polite mask cracking to reveal bewilderment. “I’m sorry, I think I misheard you.” That _had_ to be it. Of all the things he’d thought Kurusu would say upon his sudden arrival—’ _What are you doing here,’ ‘Leave.’—_ that...was as far from it as one could get.

Kurusu’s eyes snapped to him in an instant, steadfast and sure. A far cry from earlier, Akechi manages to note clunkily through his confusion. “I’d like to play for you.” He paused, stormy eyes flicking to his apron as if he’d forgotten he’d put it on. “After Boss gets back, anyways.”

The detective tried (and failed) to reign his expression back into anything that _wasn’t_ him gaping at Kurusu like a dead fish. Clearing his throat, he brought the coffee mug back to his lips as he spoke. “Is that...wise?”

No, no it wasn’t. He’d already had his suspicions _before_ hearing the Fool’s Ballad, but the detective was certain his hunch would be cemented in stone if he heard Kurusu play. His voice was like a fingerprint—with the rich tone and breathiness, the hint of repressed emotions flickering just beneath the surface, it was easy to tell Joker and Kurusu’s voice were one and the same. The only thing Akechi _hadn’t_ heard from Kurusu was his guitar, but at this point it’d be like flat out telling Akechi ‘Oh yes, I’m a phantom—’

“You already know I’m a Phantom Thief. What more do I have to hide?” Kurusu met his gaze evenly, arms folded as he leaned forward over the counter and straight into the detective’s personal space. Akechi nearly dropped his mug of coffee as his rendition of a dead fish returned once more. Even with his mouth wide and catching flies, he still couldn’t muster up a response. Instead, he tried desperately to lean back, look away, _anything_ that would put some distance between him and the unwavering steel stare currently focused on him. Kurusu responded by simply offering a _far_ too innocent smile and inching just a _little_ bit closer. “No more lies from me, Detective. Promise.”

It was intimidating, having Kurusu’s face mere inches from his—Akechi could see the light blush painting the thief’s face, could see the honest, wild spark in his eyes. The long lashes that framed cool, steel grey eyes, the arched brows hiding behind layers of fluffy dark hair. He could see the faint starry freckles strewn across his face and a tiny, silvery scar below his left eye. Akechi’s eyes betrayed him as they slipped down to Kurusu’s slightly chapped lips, pulled into a crooked roguish grin.

The rational part of Akechi’s mind begged him to pull away, to put some distance between him and the thief. Nothing would come from this game they played—nothing good, at any rate. This Judas kiss would surely lead to nothing but agony And yet, he shifted closer with a wolfish smirk on his face. “Was that a confession, Joker? I _am_ a detective. I could arrest you right here and now and have the wily Phantom leader’s head on a spike.” With a raised brow and a dark chuckle that was nothing less than a _challenge_ to the infamous leader, Akechi finally rested his coffee mug on the counter. He wouldn’t be needing it now with how his heart raced. “Doesn’t that sound lovely?”

Kurusu blinked as his smile turned arch, mischief glinting in his eyes. The intoxicating potency of that smile, of his eyes, was amplified by their proximity—Akechi was sure the thief could hear his heart hammering away in his chest. “Sure… You could turn me in.” There was impish mirth in his voice as Kurusu tilted his head, just ever so slightly. Akechi could feel the thief’s even breathing on his face, could nearly _taste_ that devilish grin, he was so _close_ . “But you won’t, _Goro._ ”

Whatever reservations Akechi had were set alight; he grabbed Kurusu—that damn _thief_ —by the front of his apron, ready to yank him—

The ding of the store bell, and the awkward cough that followed, caught the detective’s attention. Akechi glanced at Sojiro standing before the door, hand on his hip and eyebrow raised in nonchalant surprise. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.” Given the look on his face, he _absolutely_ intended to; Sojiro’s eyes shifted to Kurusu. “Kid, the two of you can go upstairs. Just...try to keep it down, all right?”

Akechi dropped his hand from Kurusu’s apron and sputtered an incoherent response as the thief barked out an amused laugh.

“He’s just pulling your leg, Detective.” Kurusu tugged his apron off, unceremoniously tossing it onto the hook and emerging from behind the counter. The playful smile gracing his face was downright infuriating as he outstretched his hand. “Shall we?”

The detective sniffed indignantly as he plucked his mug from the counter and stormed up past Kurusu and his stupid teasing gentlemanly gesture. Not once did he bother to check if Kurusu was even following him.

It would seem the apple didn’t fall far from the adopted tree, for how much the two enjoyed humiliating him.

Once he was in the attic once again, it was easy (and reassuring) to see not much had changed. The black guitar seemed to have migrated to the work desk and the pile of picks on Kurusu’s bed were gone, replaced instead by a scattered pile of books with one still open. Other than that, dust still gently floated through the air, the ancient CRT television still sat on the rickety table by the couch, the well-tended plant still stood watch. The sense of home, of security, still washed through him as he wandered further in.

He opted to plop down on the bed to in favor of flipping through the open book with muted curiosity, only to make a face. The pages were full of complex little charts covered in dots. Phrygian C? What does that even mean—

“Oh, you found the Grimoire.” Kurusu’s voice from _right next to him_ nearly made Akechi drop his coffee for the umpteenth time that day. The detective opted to ignore the fact that Kurusu had sat down _uncomfortably_ close, leaning around him with a hand on his shoulder; instead, he returned his eyes to the ‘grimoire’ with a frown.

“What does any of this mean?” Few things existed that Akechi didn’t have at least a basic knowledge of—music, evidently, was one. While he’d had no interest in the past, Akechi loathed being uneducated about _any_ topic.

Kurusu’s breathy chuckle by his ear nearly stopped his heart. “The little charts are basically fingering patterns for scales.”

Akechi’s brows furrowed. “What’s the point of them?”

Humming softly, Kurusu rested his chin on the detective’s shoulder. That damn thief _had_ to know what he was doing. “Well, to practice for one. Also helps to understand music theory if I’m going to be writing songs.”

That threw Akechi for a loop. “ _You_ write the songs?”

Kurusu pulled away to give Akechi a wide, cheeky grin—the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes and broke the thief’s aloof mask. The kind Akechi found himself wishing to see just a _little more._ “Trying to goad me into another confession, Goro?”

Despite himself, the detective chuckled quietly. He gave a valiant effort to smother out the glee bubbling in his chest at Kurusu calling him by name, and found himself happily unsuccessful. “Why, would you give me one?”

At that, Kurusu gave a small, coy smile. “Anything for you, Detective.” He winked.

_That damn smooth thief!_

“A-anyways, weren’t you going to play Wonderwall or something?” Akechi huffed out, keeping his gaze pointedly at the floor and away from that cocky smirk. The blush on his face was painfully obvious, and something that unfortunately didn’t go unnoticed if Kurusu’s widening toothy grin was any indication. The thief just snorted as he stood.

“Okay, okay, I’ll stop teasing and just play.” Laughter was evident in Kurusu’s voice as he sauntered lazily over to the work desk where the mysterious black guitar lay. And paused.

Akechi nearly missed the way Kurusu’s hands trembled as he went to pick up the instrument, the hesitation in his movements. The thief was uncharacteristically tense—even without being able to see his face, Akechi could see the anxious rigidity in his stance, could see stiff shoulders and the way his breathing seemed to have stopped.

It was baffling, seeing the dichotomy. The wily, sly phantom thief and the timid boy behind the mask.

After what seemed like an eternity, Kurusu shook his head and gently plucked the guitar from the desk and returned to the detective’s side. He was chewing absently on his lip, eyes averted as he shifted to face with the instrument at the ready. “I actually...don’t know what to play.” Kurusu admitted sheepishly after a moment of uncomfortable silence.

“You didn’t have a plan?” Unsurprising, if Akechi was going to be honest. While Kurusu was smart (almost infuriatingly so, with his quick quips and lightning flirty responses) it seemed he was _also_ the type to jump in headfirst with no forethought.

The bashful, soft chuckle as the thief rubbed his neck uncomfortably—a nervous habit, Akechi concluded—confirmed his suspicion. “Didn’t think I’d get this far, honestly. Kinda thought you’d whip out handcuffs the second I said Phantom Thief.”

“Afraid I left them at home.” Akechi replied drily, brow raised. “You’re safe. For now.”

At that, Kurusu snickered, easygoing grin making its way to his face. The detective attempted to bury the thoughts of how handsome the thief was when relaxed, how endearing his smile was when there was no false bravado bound to it. Kurusu’s eyes met his, crinkled corners and all. “My hero.” His tone was teasing, light.

Akechi found himself glad; nervousness wasn’t befitting of the thief. “You could always play Wonderwall, you know.”

Kurusu shrugged with a snort. “I actually don’t know how to play it, if I’m going to be honest. One of the most stereotypical guitarist songs out there, and I somehow missed it.” He paused thoughtfully, brows furrowed. “Well, there is a song you do already know, I guess...if you’d like to hear it.”

“The Fool’s Ballad.” Akechi murmured, eyes slipping from that musing look on Kurusu’s face down to the midnight black guitar in calloused hands. “You don’t have to play that, Kurusu. It sounded a bit...personal.”

“Akira.”

And once more, he lifted his eyes to meet steel grey. “What?”

Kurusu smiled shyly, raising a hand to tug restlessly at soft black curls. “Just call me Akira. Feels weird for you be so formal with me.”

Akechi blinked—for the briefest moment, he was concerned his heart had _actually_ stopped in his chest until it picked up doubletime. This was getting out of hand; the aimless flirting was _one_ thing, but this was beginning to cross into unsettlingly emotional territory. They were getting too close, _he_ was getting too close, and yet…

“Akira…” The detective liked the way that name tasted on his tongue, revelled in the way his stomach fluttered when Kurusu’s— _Akira’s_ —smile turned blinding. “All right. If you’d like to play that song, I won’t stop you.”

Akira rolled his shoulders, elated grin on his face and joy blazing in his eyes. “Showtime, then.”

Akechi rolled his eyes at the thief’s neverending theatrics, prepared to comment, to tease him for it until Akira began plucking at the strings. For a moment, the detective sat stock still with bated breath as Akira was fiddling with the knobs at the end of the guitar. Finally, with a contented hum, Akira began to play.

Recordings, as Akechi was quick to learn, were absolutely incomparable to sitting beside the artist, hearing every breath and feeling the notes ring through the air. The effortless way his hands moved along the strings, the slight tilt in his head and parted lips, had Akechi almost dizzy. It nearly floored him when Akira began to sing—so soft, so unsure at first, until he found his stride his voice found strength.

The notes buzzed under his skin, heart aching when Akira’s voice broke ever-so-slightly at words of loneliness, of self-doubt and fear falling from his lips. Aching when he saw the telltale glistening in Akira’s eyes and the near anguished look on his face.

Then the last note rang out and reality slowly bled back, pensive and melancholy.

Akira lifted misty eyes with an abashed smile. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to get so…” He paused, searching for the right word. “...emotional, I guess.”

Akechi found himself wanting nothing more than to kiss the tears from his face. To hold Akira in his arms and share the same sense of security the thief brought him. Akechi was close; he could see a light blush on tearstained cheeks, and wide steel grey eyes as the detective brought a hand to Akira’s cheek.

He could taste the salt on soft lips, could feel Akira’s gasp of surprise. For a moment, the thief was tense and unmoving and Akechi nearly froze with fears that he’d made an irreversible mistake. He’d misinterpreted Akira’s kindness for _something more_ , misread the mood—

Akira’s hands made their way to his hair, and Akechi felt the smile on the thief’s lips. The guitar was digging into Akechi’s chest and the angle was awkward, but his heart soared nonetheless. And, just for a little while, Akechi threw caution to the wind.

Up until the exact point in time when his phone belted out the default ringtone from his chest pocket, anyways. The detective pulled away with a frustrated sigh, ready to send it straight to voicemail (even if it was _Niijima_ and she’d just keep calling _anyways_ ).

And froze.

* * *

Akira sat dumbfounded on his bed for what felt like an eternity, staring at the stairs he’d watched Goro all but throw himself down just moments before. A passing ‘ _excuse me_ ’ as he held his phone like it were a grenade without the pin and the briefest reassuring, apologetic smile as he hurried away.

Eventually, Akira managed to toss Arsene beside him and flopped onto his bed. Books dug into his back but he couldn’t find the will to care.

Goro kissed him.

After a month’s absence, after taking off in a flash of fury as Akira offered nothing more than half-assed lies, the detective waltzes back in and sweeps him off his feet. Absently, Akira reached a hand to his lips where he could still taste the Kona blend Goro was so fond of.

And that’s where he lay, dazed and delighted, until he heard the chiptune messaging tone from his pocket.

 

**Necronerdicon [17:21] : i cant believe u**

**Necronerdicon [17:21] : the detective??**

**Necronerdicon [17:22] : really?????**

 

Akira groaned; of course Futaba would find out. He was almost entirely sure she had his _room_ bugged on as well as the cafe below.

 

**Sent [17:23] : oh come on how do you know about that already**

**Necronerdicon [17:24] : same way i know you say a pun every time u feed ur plant**

**Necronerdicon [17:24] : mwehehe u can’t hide anything from me! ( ￣∀￣ )**

**Sent [17:25] : this is unbeleafable**

**Sent [17:25] : i feel so attacked right now**

**Necronerdicon [17:26] : u should. srsly. the detective???**

 

As unnerving as it was for Futaba to have constant surveillance (just _how much_ does she listen to?), she did have a point. A point that every single one of the Thieves seemed bound and determined to bring up every step of the way.

But when Akira thinks of Akechi’s small, genuine smiles, thinks of how dedicated and hardworking he is...thinks of those red-brown eyes meeting his as a blush creeps across the detective’s face, of the way his laugh sounds so carefree and light at Leblanc—and beside him it was breathy, adoring—all the rational fears Akira had fly right out the window.

Even if him approaching the detective, of talking and flirting with him, came from the desire to play with any and all fire, it slowly morphed into something more.

 

**Sent [17:28] : i have it bad futaba**

**Sent [17:28] : he’s so. cute??**

**Necronerdicon [17:29] : akira really of all the guys u fall for**

**Necronerdicon [17:30] : oh whatever. i’ll just break his spine if he breaks ur heart.**

**Sent [17:31] : thanks futaba. what would i do without u.**

**Necronerdicon [17:31] : probably be even less responsible than u are now**

**Necronerdicon [17:31] : <3**

* * *

****“Yes, of course. But why Okumura? What would you possibly gain from information like that?” Akechi paused, eyes flicking around the Yongen-jaya alley he’d hidden away in.

“Does it matter? Just get it done.”

“ ...apologies, it wasn’t my place to ask. I can get you the information by the eighth.”

“And what of the Phantom Thieves? Have you learned anything useful?”

“The Phantom Thieves? I...still haven’t discovered their identities. You’ll be the first to know once I learn more.”

The line clicked dead. He sighed, the weight of the world once again returning to his shoulders. That momentary respite only served as a reminder of how heavy the burdens upon him were, of how his relationship with Akira—whatever it was, at any rate—was simply doomed to fail.

Akechi was just far too damaged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah references galore. if you get them you have some idea where this is headed. oops.
> 
> edit ALSO i forgot i drew this but here have a [lazy doodle](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/DHT7nxDXcAAA1qY.jpg:large) of two idiots in an attic
> 
> i'm working on drawing [akira](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/DIeNuf2UIAQdXCH.jpg:large) with blueshawk arsene right meow but like i said i can't work for very long so it might take a while horp.
> 
> edit (again yes) the book Akira has is the Bass Grimoire. great for anyone interested in music theory!! It's got different charts for the different modes of major and minor scales as well as a bunch of equations for learning intervals and stuff like that. There was originally a section where the two of them discussed theory but. i realize not everyone is as much of a music geek and it was kinda boring tbh.
> 
> Also didn't intend for anything to happen this chapter but felt that pulling the rug out twice in one chapter was r00d as hell so I. didn't do that lol.
> 
> see you guys next week.


	8. coincidence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A breath, reassurance, and the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this is so late, spent all last week fixing my computer!
> 
> (unbeta'd and my crops are dying)

"Akechi.”

Niijima’s voice snapped him out of a dazed stupor, hands freezing on the shredded bits of bread he was absentmindedly tearing to pieces. A glance up at her across the café table they shared revealed a frustrated, albeit concerned, expression.

With a sigh, he dropped the bread back onto the plate. Clearly he wasn’t going to eat it anytime soon. “I’m sorry, Niijima. Could you repeat that? I…” An excuse failed him.

“...wasn’t listening.” She finished for him, lips pulled into a thin line. “I was only asking if you were feeling alright the past couple of days.” A pause as she thoughtfully sipped at her water, steady brown eyes never once leaving him. “You’ve been fairly out of it.”

Of course Niijima would notice the cracks in his mask—or, at the very least, being with Akira had just caused them to be more evident to begin with. It was far too easy for him to let his guard slip around the thief, if even just for a moment, and deepen the damage to his impeccable act. To be honest, Akechi wasn’t sure that he hated it either. It brought a sense of safety, of warmth, that an ice-cold mask never could.

He dropped his eyes to the table. Perhaps it would be best to be honest with her; there was a decent chance she wouldn’t believe his deflections, anyways. And, knowing Niijima, she was far too persistent for her own good sometimes. “I’ve been better, honestly.”

The surprise in her voice was viscerally palpable. A testament of just how frequently he lied to her, truly. “More migraines? You don’t look like you’ve slept much.”

Shaking his head, he rested his head on his hand and sighed. “No, I don’t have many when I’m taking my medications regularly. I’m just...stressed, I suppose.”

Understatement of the year from the Ace Detective—between Shido hounding him for strange information on his latest target and his odd affection for someone he should despise, Akechi was wearing thin.

“I see. Is this about school? Have your grades been doing okay?”

Akechi’s smile was wry; of course Niijima would be concerned with his school performance. Even when they were buried to their necks in casework, she still always managed to find time to ask about his exams and homework. Top of his class, of course, and nothing could change that, but he figured it would be out of character for Niijima not to ask. “Exemplary as always, Niijima.”

The dry humor in his tone made her crack a rare, if not surprised smile. “Good.” She coughed, trying to hide her amusement behind her glass of water. “Is it... _personal_  then?”

If Niijima didn't have the expression of a parent out of their depths coaching their kids about intimate relationships, he'd have assumed she was simply asking how he was with tact. As it stood… “Are you asking if I'm  _involved_ with someone?” Incredulity filtered unbidden into his tone, but he made absolutely no attempts to mask it. This was uncharted territory with the prosecutor—he made it a point to never ask about  _her_  relationships (nonexistent as they were) and she responded in kind. Both of them had too little free time to be squandering it on frivolous relationships.

Though, that may be objectively untrue, given how many hours Akechi had wiled away at Leblanc.

Niijima straightened her shoulders and made her best effort to put on a serious, adult face. It came off stilted and awkward, out of her element. Clearly not a bridge she’d had to cross with the younger Niijima, then. “It's perfectly fine to be involved, Akechi,” Oh, he already did not like where this was going, “and you know you can talk to me. If you need any... _help—”_

“Okay!” Akechi hurriedly cut her off, hands raising in mortified surrender and felt heat rise to his face at a breakneck speed. They were  _not_  going to have this conversation; or at the very least, he'd steer it well away from less savory and more embarrassing subjects. “There is someone! Just  _please_ , for the love of god, let's not go into the necessity of safety.”

If the relief on Niijima’s face wasn't enough thanks for sparing the both of them, the small awkward chuckle and gentle smile was. “Of course. I just want to make sure you're okay—in every aspect of your life. I care, Akechi.”

And he knew that. Niijima, while all business and no bite most of the time, had been a rock in his life since he first walked in as a fledgling detective. For some reason, she'd taken it upon herself to take him under her wing; at first, Akechi had assumed it was out of some oddly misplaced pity. Take care of the fuck-up kid for your own brownie points kind of thing.

A happy surprise, then, when he'd been wrong. Niijima had outright told him the reason she'd stuck to him was that she found him interesting.  _‘Odd and awkward, with a creepy smile...but interesting._ ’

At first, while he tolerated her presence, he'd also resented it. The Ace Detective needed no one. He didn't need someone to nag at him to eat, or to stealthily bring him revolting burnt cups of coffee as the day stretched on well into the night. Akechi didn't need someone to ask how his day had been, how school was, how he was feeling, if he'd gotten enough sleep.

Now, however, he'd lament the loss of knowing someone  _cared_  enough to acknowledge his existence.

His thoughtful silence must have stretched on too long, as Niijima cleared her throat. “So...who are they? Anyone I know?”

Akechi bit back a groan. This wasn't a conversation he was getting out of easily, then.

“He’s a student from Shujin, so I doubt it.”

Niijima rested her chin in her palm, brow raised and rapt look in her eyes. Good to know she was invested, at least. “Rough time to be one, no doubt. How did the two of you meet?”

‘ _He brought me drugs at the Phantom Thieves concert he was playing at because he's the goddamn leader_ ’ seemed like a poor response. “He lives and works at a café I frequent.”

Niijima’s eyes narrowed briefly, almost imperceptibly, before she forced her expression back to neutral. “So, then...are the two of you fighting? Is that why you've been halfway across the world?”

Here, Akechi truly hesitated with a reply. There was no apt way to fully explain the situation without both revealing Akira’s identity (which was a fast-track behind bars for the curly-haired thief, and something Akechi was deeply apprehensive about) as well as his own connection to the unsavory underbelly of Tokyo itself. It was a multifaceted issue, layered inextricably in on itself until it morphed into it’s own monstrosity of a problem.

With a sigh, he decided on the abridged version; Akechi had avoided him until he wound up back at Leblanc a month later, kissed him, and left after receiving a phone call from a classmate. No mentions of nighttime thievery, of songs full of broken words, of Shido’s demands drawing him away from the one thing he’d found security in.

Niijima still made a horrified face, even without the gory details. “You just...ran out?” She ran a finger around the rim over her water glass, eyes near disappointed as they bored into him. It was unsettling, not to mention confusing.

“Yes? I told you, I had a phone call—”

“How long ago was this?”

Akechi shrunk under her gaze. “Ah, well… if today is the eighth, then a little under a week.”

Niijima slouched back into her chair, rubbing at her eyes with a low groan. “That poor boy. You need to talk to him.”

There was something about the exhausted, authoritative tone to her voice that had Akechi pouting stubbornly down at his shredded bread. Patronizing as always, Niijima, even if she did have good intentions. “I...know that. I just worry about hurting him further.”

The hard stare she’d been giving him softened, melting into a slight, sad smile. “Leading him on like this is going to hurt him as well. Even if you have no intentions of staying with him, you have to tell him that.”

For a moment, Akechi was quiet, before muttering out something he’d been pointedly avoiding confronting for weeks. “I...want to be by his side. Is that selfish of me?”

Yes. The only outcome was pain for the both of them at this rate, no matter the momentary peace Akechi found in the thief’s presence. It would be far better to rip it from the roots now before they truly had a chance to flourish.

“No. It’s not, Akechi. You deserve to be happy.”

A lie. A lovely lie in which he wished to linger.

* * *

Akira stared up at the ceiling of the spaceport, breath slowly returning to him as he groaned. Reckless. He’d momentarily forgotten Arsene’s innate weakness to ice—honestly, he should have switched the second he saw Lilim and her stupid bass guitar blaze up from where he ripped off the Shadow’s mask.

But no, his mind was stuck in the attic, next to a gentle smile and russet eyes staring into his own.

“Akira, are you okay?” Ann’s worried voice snapped that train of thought before it could flourish into a full-fledged daydream; she peeked over at him at the corner of his vision, blue eyes burning with concern behind her shiny red mask. “Are you hurt?”

“Just my pride.” He wheezed out before stumbling to his feet, muscles groaning in protest the whole way. “...and my back.”

With a roll of her eyes, Ann absently tugged at one of her pigtails and placed a hand on her hip. Makoto strode past Akira, waving the both of them forward without sparing even a glance back.

“Perhaps if you would focus, your pride would be fine.” She said curtly, pausing at the final airlock. “We need you to lead us, Akira, not be stuck in your head.”

Guilt twisted in his stomach. Some leader he was.

They deserved better. They all did. The Phantom Thieves deserved someone who could stay on task, keep their head in the game and their wits about them. Someone who could boldly stride forward, ever sure and strong. Inspiring and confident, issuing commands and keeping them from harm.

Why  _he_  was the leader, he was sure he’d never truly understand. While he adored the feeling of being needed, of being  _necessary_ , Akira couldn’t help the incessant self-doubt clinging to him. There was no way he was  _enough_.

He wore the mask well enough, sure. Joker was cool, confident, giving orders and kicking ass all in stride. Full of smirks and strong-willed as he strolled through palaces like he owned the place.

As much as he wished to be, Akira would never be Joker. Not really.

Akira shook his head as he shifted Arséne to his back. They were  _so close_  to the Treasure—he just had to keep his head in the game a little bit longer.

* * *

His phone buzzing by his ear jolted Akira awake. Squinting at the faintly illuminated cross beams above him, he heard Morgana groan sleepily.

“Who could it be at this time of night?”

Akira rolled onto his side and grabbed his phone, blearily staring at the too-bright screen.

 

**Herlock Sholmes [02:12] : We should talk.**

**Herlock Sholmes [02:13] : Are you free later today?**

 

Akira sat bolt-upright, nearly flinging Morgana off the bed in the process; the cat squawked angrily before finding a new spot at his side. His heart thrummed unevenly in his chest.

Goro was about the  _last_  person he expected a text message from.

 

**Sent [02:15] : yea why**

 

A lie—he had planned to spend the day on medicine and equipment runs, as well as telling the team to get the calling card ready, but his dwindling Takemedic supply and impending thievery suddenly felt significantly less important.

 

**Herlock Sholmes [02:15] : Oh, I wasn't expecting you to be awake.**

 

Goro’s nearly instant reply brought a smile to his face.

 

**Herlock Sholmes [02:16] : Well no matter, I suppose. Would you be willing to talk with me?**

**Herlock Sholmes [02:16] : I think it's time we addressed the elephant in the room.**

**Sent [02:17] : your secret featherman figure collection?**

**Herlock Sholmes [02:17] : what**

**Herlock Sholmes [02:17] : how do you know about that**

**Sent [02:18] : i was kidding lol**

**Sent [02:19] : wait**

**Sent [02:19] : you ACTUALLY have a secret featherman figure collection??**

 

Well, that was a surprise. Futaba would be thrilled to know that, at least.

 

**Herlock Sholmes [02:21] : Well.**

**Herlock Sholmes [02:21] : Anyways. Not the elephant I intended on addressing, at least.**

**Herlock Sholmes [02:22] : I’ll be by Leblanc tomorrow later in the evening.**

**Sent [02:23] : it's a date**

**Herlock Sholmes [02:24] : I suppose it is.**

 

Akira’s heart skipped a beat as a smile spread across his face. At least Akechi wasn't going to pretend he didn't exist and go merrily on his way as he thought he would. Flopping back onto the bed with a goofy grin, Akira was about to let himself nod off one more time until his phone chirped once more.

 

**Necronerdicon [02:26] : akechi likes featherman????? (°ロ°) !**

* * *

Akechi spent most of the day in a lighthearted daze and a small unbidden smile on his face, something that didn't go unnoticed by Niijima. It was rare for him to be so outwardly happy, but she didn't comment on it until he rose to leave the station.

“Going to see him today?” Her tone was laced with warmth and amusement as she tore her eyes from her scattered case files and obnoxiously red calling cards.

“Is it that obvious?” Akechi chuckled nervously, tugging at the collar of his shirt. On any normal day, he'd be appalled at the drastic slip in his mask. Today, it seemed a minor thing.

No doubt it would return tomorrow; he simply wished to enjoy being honest, if even just for today.

Niijima chuckled softly. “I'm glad you're going to work things out.” She jokingly tossed a calling card at him, grin gentle and kind—he caught it with a matching grin of his own.

And his heart froze solid.

He knew the name on this calling card.

“Akechi? What's wrong?” Niijima’s voice was surprised, strained, but Akechi barely registered that. Barely registered that she stood, that she made her way to him.

“When did you find this?” He’d finally croaked out as the world slowly slipped away from him.

“Kobayakawa’s? We found it earlier this week.” Confusion seeped into her voice as she continued. “I meant to tell you sooner. The Phantom Thieves killed him, it wasn't a suicide.”

That didn't sound right. That didn't sound right at all. “When was he killed again?” His voice sounded odd, hollow. Akechi could barely recognize it as it trembled.

“Near the middle of September. Akechi, are you alright? You already knew about his death.”

She was right, but the timing was wrong. The Phantom Thieves were nothing if not dramatic—if they had targeted the principal, at  _least_  the entirety of Shujin would have known about it in advance. Finding a calling card  _now_ , nearly a month later, was  _wrong_. There was simply no way it would have flown under the radar for so long.

But he distinctly remembers getting a call near the beginning of September with orders barked through the receiver and commands for information. Odd, Akechi had thought, when Kobayakawa had committed suicide a few days later. Odd, and familiar, but Akechi had refused to face it. Couldn't face just how  _often_  the people he'd investigated for Shido had kicked the bucket or wound up empty husks of people.

He probably knew all along, but brushed it aside as he stockpiled his own mountain of information on Shido. This little mental dance of avoiding the truth would be over when he finally had enough evidence to make that bastard choke on it.

Now, he couldn't do it. He couldn't mentally peg it as a coincidence and pin it on nameless, faceless Phantom Thieves. Not when he knew the gentle smile of their leader, not when he’d heard the kindness in Akira’s voice as he spoke gentle words and sang beautiful songs.

The Phantom Thieves weren't responsible for this death.

He was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant for this to be a bit more light hearted but we see how well that went
> 
> Also I love Niijima she deserved better and I Like to think she took a liking to Akechi and treated him as much like family as she does makoto
> 
> anyways I accidentally wrote myself into a bit of a bind by tying the metaverse to music and making Akechi as adept with music as a fork too so we're winging it guys
> 
> also yes there is a new set of tags mysteriously I figured I needed to fix those since I. Know where this is going now.


	9. comfort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bring me comfort, let me live the lie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well I wasn't planning on writing this yet but as it so happens I got very sick at work and was sent home so I. had time to kill since I can't sleep.
> 
> here y'all go
> 
> (unbeta'd she weeps softly)

“We’re all set, then.” Makoto let out a long, exhausted sigh as she twisted the Queen mask replica in her hands and sat back in her chair. She looked tired—they all did, Akira noted with a sting of shame. If he hadn't been such a space-case daydreaming about either kissing the detective or being _arrested_ by him, the Thieves probably could have made good time in Okumura’s Palace. He could have spaced out infiltrations, given each of them time to rest and recuperate when they grew weary, taken the time to plan out their next move instead of blowing every Shadow to high-heavens with no thought to energy conservation. Hell, he could have nicked more loot to pawn off later and increased their weapons and instrument budgets. But no, they had to do a one-day Palace run bonanza because he can't manage his time between moping and fantasizing.

Good thing he’s made more absentminded cups of coffee in the past month than the whole damn time he’s been in Tokyo, or they never would have found the Treasure.

“All right, finally!” Ryuji pumped his fist in the air with an enormous grin on his face. "We've got the calling card ready to go and a show to do! Then we can take that bastard’s heart!”

“I will be glad when this is over,” Haru murmured quietly over her cup of coffee, primly sat on the edge of the couch with an unreadable expression. With the threat of being sold off looming dangerously over her head, Akira honestly couldn't blame her for being relieved to see the end goal. And while she rarely showed anything other than a kind smile and gentle demeanor, he could tell from the bags under eyes and the slight slump to her shoulders that it weighed on her. He wasn't the only one with a mask to wear, it seemed. “I simply want my father back.”

Yusuke hummed an affirmative response from beside her, folding his arms across his chest with a languid grace. “He will have to face his crimes but...I wish that for you as well.”

A small smile graced Haru’s face as she forwent a response, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. It was a tough spot to be in; wishing nothing but the best for someone you cared for and knowing they must atone for the unending wrongs they’d committed.

Akira finally stood from the table, domino mask in hand and Joker mask in place. “You all know the drill. We’ll gear up at the Okumura headquarters at ten.” His voice was calm, courageous, arrogant as he straightened his back and casually slipped his hands into his pockets. “Futaba, get ahold of Mishima and we’ll be good to go.”

“Roger dodger!” With a mischievous grin, she saluted Akira from her perch on his desk chair before huddling ominously over her phone. “I'll get the NPC to bring the big guns this time!”

Makoto’s face was predictably horrified (and Haru’s face finally showed hints of life at the prospect of ‘big guns’) but Akira kept his face distinctly neutral as he nodded. While he had _no_ clue what she was talking about, he ultimately decided it would be fine to let her have her fun. Probably.

Not like he could stop her, anyways. Akira knew when to quit while he was ahead.

“Grab your gear, guys. At ten, it's showtime.”

* * *

Akira was absolutely, one-hundred-percent _positive_ there had to be some sort of scientific explanation for how time slowed to an agonizing crawl when waiting for something. Maybe something to do with correlations between perceptions and the fabric of space-time itself—hell, maybe the _Metaverse_ tampered with time. No matter _how_ , no matter _why_ , he could have _sworn_ the rest of the Thieves filtered out hours ago, yet the clock betrayed it had only been just under forty-five minutes.

Growling in frustration, he dropped his head to the café counter with a hollow thud. It didn't help that Leblanc was characteristically dead; even Morgana abandoned him in favor of having his face pulled at by Futaba, citing her suspicious promise of tuna and escape from boredom.

Which left him completely and utterly alone.

Great.

It was about five minutes into his isolated pity party that he heard the door bell signifying a customer—Akira jumped back from the counter like it burned and zeroed in his attention in on the door. Last thing he wanted was Sojiro to see him slacking off.

“I didn't mean to startle you.” An empty, polite voice fell from plastic lips as Goro levelled him with a poor imitation for a smile, rooted stiffly in the doorway.

For a moment, Akira’s heart soared at the sight of the detective. Part of him had cynically believed he’d be stood up in his own home. The dead look in the detective's eyes, however, immediately reigned in any joy he felt at being proven wrong. It wasn't like Goro’s usual cheerful pretense; even his usually impeccable mask couldn't hide the roiling misery behind the smile.

“Goro!” Akira nearly winced at how weirdly _desperate_ he sounded. Clearing his throat, he took his voice down a few octaves and tried again. “Are you okay?”

Goro just...stared at him. Barely blinking, barely moving, just...staring. The last pieces of his affable façade crumbled away, leaving his face disturbingly blank. It didn't even feel like Goro was _looking_ at him, just staring through him at something unseen. His faraway russet eyes bored a hole straight through Akira, straight through Leblanc and half of Tokyo, vacant and lost.

Finally, after a few agonizing moments of oppressive silence, deafening stillness, Goro robotically moved to sit and shifted his eyes from Akira entirely. “I...don't think so, Akira.”

Coffee. That's what Goro needed. Or at very least, it was all Akira could think to _do_ in this situation. Considering how long it took the detective to formulate even basic, dry responses, it would take eons to pry any sort of answers from him. He'd open up on his own terms, in his own time. Hopefully.

So...coffee and patience.

Life began returning to Goro’s face bit by bit as the familiar aroma of roasting Kona wafted through the café. Initially, his brows furrowed with confusion, eyes disoriented and puzzled as they stared holes into the countertop. Then, as the smell of cinnamon and steamed milk joined the fray, a wry, strained smile crossed his face.

And finally, as Akira set the cup of Kona, steamed milk with plenty of foam, and just a dash of cinnamon in front of the detective, the red brown eyes dislodged themselves from the bar and slid up to meet Akira’s. A tiny spark of tired contentment burned in them, followed by a slightly more genuine (if a bit awkward and uncertain) smile.

“Thank you.” The sincerity in Goro’s voice had Akira’s heart flaring with delight before he squashed it down half-heartedly. Now wasn't the time to be giddy for Goro.

“No problem.” He hummed out before moving to begin cleaning the coffee machines. A gloved hand on his wrist stopped him in his tracks, however, and his eyes flicked back to the detective once more.

Goro was chewing at his lip—an odd gesture from him, to say the least—as his eyes wavered weakly between resolve and despair. The warring emotions on his face, the unsettling abnormality of it all, twisted Akira with worry that only cemented itself as Goro spoke again. “I think I may have made a mistake.”

Ominous. Thoughts raced dizzyingly through Akira’s head—Goro regretted spending time with him, lamented knowing him, _Akira_ was the mistake gumming up the workings of the detective and he finally realized it— “A mistake?” His voice sounded distant and foreign as his heartbeat slowed to a crawl and breath caught in his throat. Pathetic and alone, that's all Akira would ever be and the detective finally realized he could do better. Should do better—

Goro sucked in an unsteady breath before dropping Akira’s wrist in favor of the coffee, simply staring into its milky depths for a few endless moments. “I got involved with someone I shouldn't have. And he—he used me.” The detective's shoulders shook as his face crumpled in grief and fury while tears ran rivers down his face. “I thought I was one step ahead but I was _wrong._ ”

Guilt drowned Akira in thunderous waves, followed shortly by overwhelming concern. “What happened?”

“That…” Hesitation flickered on his face. “It doesn't matter what happened. Not really. It's too late to change my course.” Goro sniffed tiredly, staring with resignation into his coffee.

Akira didn't think; he leapt over the counter with all the grace of a phantom thief and flung his arms around Goro. The detective squeaked out a surprised noise, stiff and confused under his embrace. Then, he melted awake into the touch and buried his face into Akira’s shoulder.

It broke his heart that he could feel damp tears through the thin cotton of his shirt, could feel nails digging into his chest even though the binder. That Goro Akechi wept silently in his arms, never once making a sound.

And like that they stood for what felt like an eternity, until the tears ran dry and hiccups bubbled from Goro’s lips. Akira hadn't even been aware he'd been threading his hands through the detective's hair, or that he’d been humming a tuneless melody the whole time. It was worth it, though, as he felt Goro slowly relax in his arms and finally lift his head from the burrow he’d made in Akira’s shoulder.

Even though his eyes were puffy and red, his skin splotchy and soaked through with salt, Akira couldn't help thinking how damn beautiful Goro was. Couldn't help dropping his hand from the detective's hair and wiping absently at the tears.

He was pleasantly surprised when Goro leaned into the touch. “Sorry,” the detective croaked out, voice thick and raspy. “You're always comforting me.”

Not true, Akira thinks idly as he remembers the detective mirroring his actions not too long ago. “There's nothing to apologize for. I want to help.” Akira smiled gently, brushing Goro’s now dishevelled bangs from his face. “Even if it's just by being here if you need it and making coffee.”

At that, Goro let out a light, exhausted chuckle. “Who could forget the coffee?” His lips pulled into a tentative smile as red-brown eyes searched Akira's before flicking obviously down. And leaned ever-so-slightly forward.

Akira brushed his thumb across Goro’s cheek, brows furrowed. “Are you sure you want me to kiss you right now? I don't want you to think I'm taking advantage of you because I really like you and I don't want to mess this up and—”

“Akira.”

“Yes?” He licked his lips nervously.

“Just kiss me, dammit.” The detective growled, grabbing fistfulls of his apron and pulling Akira dangerously close, something indeterminate burning bright in his eyes.

Well, he didn't need to be told twice.

Closing the distance, Akira could taste salt and coffee and cinnamon on Goro’s lips, could feel the hum of appreciation rumble through his chest as the detective pressed ever closer. It was nothing like the sweet, chaste kiss from before; this one burned like fire, feverish and passionate as Goro pushed his back into the café counter. Hands dug into his hips, a tongue licked at his lip. A possessive purr escaped Akira as his own hands knotted in Goro’s hair.

It was all well and good (really good, actually) until they mutually realized air was a necessary part of living. Didn't stop Akira from whining as Goro pulled away,  though, face flushed and breath coming in short gasps.

“Not that you’d ever hear me complain,” Akira wheezed out with a blissed out smile. “But where did _that_ come from?”

Goro’s smile was distant as he pressed their foreheads together—like this, Akira could feel the detective's racing heartbeat and short puffs of breath on his face. “I just wish to spend whatever time I can with you before…”

“Before what?”

A tense silence fell between them before Goro shook his head slowly, hair at tickling Akira’s face. “No...it doesn't matter.”

Akira wished he could ignore the chilling dread coursing through his veins.

“No. I guess it doesn't.”

* * *

“What the hell is he doing here?!” Ryuiji—or Skull, rather—blurted boisterously, face twisted in annoyance and defiance from under the replica mask. To his credit, Goro simply smiled sweetly in response and clasped his hands behind his back.

“Oh, I've become an avid fan of the Phantom Thieves as of late. I simply wished to see them play once more.” If Akira didn't know Goro was just trying to push Skull’s buttons, (and succeeding,) he’d have been flattered they’d managed to convert their staunchest detractor.

Noir seemed to be the only one unphased by Goro’s antics; she offered a pleasant grin and clapped her hands before her. “I think it's wonderful you're here. No doubt Joker is happy.”

Akira blanched. “W-why would I be happy? I don't know the detective outside his attempts to arrest me.” The cool, collected tone he was aiming for was shattered by tripping over his own words. Noir just laughed before turning knowing eyes to him and giving a tiny wink.

“Well, if you're quite finished,” Queen began, folding her arms across her chest and giving Akira a narrow stare that meant they would _definitely_ be discussing this later. “We have to be on in just under five. I hope you're ready to go.”

And for the first time since meeting, and subsequently falling for, the detective...Akira was. He could feel Goro’s calm smile at his back as he strode away, heading for the makeshift stage in the plaza of the Okumura headquarters with his guitar case in hand and friends by his side.

For the first time in a long time, Akira felt confident, felt just ever closer to being Joker in truth.

The crowd they’d pulled was impressive—daunting, even. Queen had mentioned their surprising surge in popularity was likely the culprit, but even she was surprised at the sheer mass of people.

“This is…” Panther began, face pale as she anxiously tugged at a pigtail and shifted her weight back and forth.

“Unsettling.” Fox’s lips pulled into a thin line as he surveyed the concert-goers. His fingers stilled on his bass, eyes quickly flitting to the ground. “Does anyone get the impression…” Words failed the artist, but Oracle was quick to pick up the slack.

“Something isn't right about this.” She muttered as her hands were buried in the wires to her soundboard, expression unreadable behind her goggles but her terror was belied in the way her fingers trembled on the cords.

“Are you guys kidding?! This is effin’ awesome!” Skull leaned back on his drum throne with a wide, carefree grin. Joker could almost _feel_ the thrill thrumming through the drummer’s veins. “The Phantom Thieves are _finally_ gettin' the recognition they deserve!”

Joker’s eyes skimmed the crowd until they rested upon the detective, who’s troubled expression mirrored his own. They locked eyes briefly before Goro shook his head. Even he knew something was off.

“The bigger they are...the harder they fall…” Joker murmured as he strapped on his guitar with an uneasy trepidation.

Something was _wrong_ , but it was far too late to back out now. Truthfully, they all had already doubled down on this act—they were out here for a reason, he had to remember that. So, after shaking his head and taking an unsteady breath, Joker stepped up to the microphone.

The icy chill in his veins didn't stop him from grinning with excitement, didn't stop him from dramatically flicking out his three-tailed coat and raising his arms. If this was his last dance, he'd damn well make it count.

“It’s showtime!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hohoho boy are we gonna be in for a ride
> 
> We're uh we’re getting somewhere i guess
> 
> (edit: I can't believe I've never mentioned this before but the title of the fic is a Santana song from the Caravanserai album of the same name. It was a Santana concert I went to that inspired this whole thing as Akechi's experience in chapter one was. very similar to my own.)


	10. the fall.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And Goliath fell.

The thrill of performing never grew old—it seared through Joker’s veins, electrifying and intoxicating. Dizzying, _powerful_ , having an entire crowd in the palms of red-clad hands. As the crowds grew with their fame, the rush magnified. It burned, screamed through his body, made Joker feel _alive_. Then, with Arsène, that feeling was only amplified until it was nearly painful, scorching through his nerves and spurring his heart into a wild overdrive as he sang.

Truth be told, it was a rare sight these days for Joker to sing; Panther was by in far the better singer, and her voice had a mystical quality that even he had a hard time emulating. Passionate and fiery, full of life he didn’t have, brimming with spirit as bright as her blinding smile. Didn’t hurt that the crowd absolutely _adored_ her and her bubbly stage presence, smiling and bouncing across their stage rain or shine. She had amassed her own cult following among Phantom Thieves fans, and it wasn’t hard to see why.

Today, however, Panther decided to step back, taking up lead guitar to Joker’s right, leaving him on rhythm and vocals. Honestly, the new song he’d written to account for their newest addition _was_ originally written for her (and a bit out of his range), but they’d found her voice to be a poor compliment to a new instrument to work around. It was far too much of a showstopper, meant to lead, not harmonize as he’d intended when he wrote it.

Joker’s smile grew as he heard the gentle tenors of a violin ring out from backstage, grew as he heard the telltale whispers course like wildfire through the crowd. Plenty had theorized they may be introducing a new member soon; carefully crafted whispers from Mishima on the forums had hinted as much and ignited feverish speculation among fans. _‘A carefully crafted PR ploy,’_ Mishima had said with a glint of Thieflike mischief in his eye. Conjecture bred a hype filled frenzy, exacerbated excitement to a boiling point. And now, with suspicions confirmed when Noir wandered on stage, the crowd burst into a thunderous uproar that damn near threw Joker off his feet.

When she took her place to Joker’s left, a small nervous smile made its way to her face as she continued to coax ethereal tones from her violin. He nodded reassuringly (he hoped) to her, before turning his eyes back to the legions of people with a smile of his own.

If it truly was his last dance, no one could stop him from enjoying it while it lasts.

* * *

It was sometime between the middle of the set, when Akira locked eyes with Goro as he sang possibly his _favorite_ song he’s written for the Thieves with a rowdy grin, and the end of the concert that the detective had disappeared. While it was customary for them to make a grand exit, (more for the sake of keeping their identities as secret as humanly possible,) Akira had shed his coat and hastily made his way through the departing throngs of people in search of him. Gone.

He fought back the disappointment pooling uncomfortably in his chest as the crowd moved around him, barely even acknowledging him. He’d _hoped_ they’d get a chance to talk again after the concert—especially since Akira was almost certain the detective had something to get off of his chest.

Maybe that was why Goro disappeared in the first place; sometimes it felt like he was just allergic to honesty. Frustrating, to say the least, but Akira couldn’t bring himself to be surprised. He was much the same way, after all. Carefully hiding truths under non-answers and dutifully blank masks.

Still. Akira was going to pout, regardless of logic.

“He’s gone?”

Heart attack notwithstanding, Akira turned to see Haru, out of her costume and into a puffy sweater, ducking through the dispersing crowds with a small frown. She looked almost as disappointed as he was. Almost.

“Yeah, looks like it,” he replied. “Looking for him?”

“No, but you are.” The innocent smile on her face was a lie—Akira could clearly see the mischief sparkling in her warm brown eyes. He _knew_ there was a reason she fit so well with the rest of them.

“Busted.”

She laughed at that, quiet but amused. “I don't think I'm the one you need to worry about.”

Oh, shit. “Where’s Makoto?”

“She went home for the evening, but I imagine she wants to have a discussion.”

“I guess the _better_ question is where her brass knuckles are.”

“Futaba has them. You're safe,” Haru said with a knowing smile. Her expression softened to something bristling with understanding and friendly concern. “You shouldn't worry. We’re all happy if _you're_ happy.” A pause, then: “Makoto included.”

“Even if that gets us all arrested?”

Haru was quiet for a moment, shifting her eyes from Akira to the empty courtyard they’d filled only a short time ago. Pensive and distant. It was clear she was sifting to find just the right words. Akira liked that about Haru; even if she was far more mischievous than any of them had expected, at the end of the day, she cared enough to prepare carefully chosen, sincere words when it counted. When she felt it important to impart her true thoughts.

“I think it might be worth it,” she said slowly. Methodically. “I know Makoto’s been giving you a hard time for being so distracted, but I don’t think I've seen you smile like you do around Akechi. You're happy, yes?”

Even with unease clenching at his chest, the answer was clear. It didn't matter if his bone-white domino mask still sat upon his face; Haru was one of few who could see straight past it to the unsightly cracks underneath.

“I am.”

* * *

Fortunately, Akira’s relationship with the detective was conversationally placed on indefinite hold when the Thieves celebrated their most recent performance. He’d managed to dodge that bullet for the time being.

Less fortunate was the reason.

Akira stared at the cross beams above his bed. Well, staring might be a bit of a stretch—that’s where his eyes were currently looking, sure, but his brain was processing exactly nothing. It had stalled out hours ago, grinding to an abrupt halt the second Okumura died right before their eyes.

And there it was: the other shoe had dropped.

Heart attack, everyone reported. The blame on the Phantom Thieves went unsaid, but he could feel it. He could feel the sudden collective shift in favor, could feel the vacuum support had left quickly fill with disdain. The almost unnatural excitement surrounding rumors of their new member was quickly replaced equally by heavy scorn. The implicit weight of everyone’s perceived guilt filled his heart with lead and sat primly on his chest.

Guilt was familiar. Comfortable. Warm.

Or maybe it was just Morgana, snoozing away on his chest like nothing was wrong. Like they _didn't_ just potentially murder someone. He had spouted reassurances as they sat in shock and stared at the cheerful offline screen that had replaced Okumura’s lifeless face. Morgana had insisted it wasn't them, swore up and down their innocence. They had done everything right, he said. This shouldn't have happened, he said.

It felt hollow.

Akira blinked, lifting a hand to absently rub at his eyes, only faintly registering that his face was wet.

It didn't matter if it _shouldn't_ have happened, it _did_ happen. Okumura was dead, no pranks or jokes. Haru herself had confirmed as much before withdrawing entirely from conversation. Not that Akira could really blame her. To say this was a shock would be a gross understatement.

Akira slid out from under the covers, from under Morgana, barely registering as the cat yowled after him. He needed a distraction. Coffee and a distraction.

* * *

The Phantom Thieves had done their concert, sung their songs in front of the Okumura Foods business headquarters and finished with their customary promise to steal his heart—all very theatrical, if Akechi were to be honest. It all felt unnecessarily reckless, painting a bright target on their backs like that. By being such public figures, by gathering as they did and drawing crowds, they put themselves at unconscionable risk of being caught.

It seemed to be one of Akira’s most prominent traits: the uncanny ability to put himself squarely in the center of catastrophe.

Okumura’s death proved as much; the Phantom Thieves had progressed from a legend surrounded by coincidence, to murderers. At least in the public eye. Akechi could hear it, hear how the tone of conversation regarding them had shifted.

They were guilty, according to the public. No trial, no defense. Just the arm of the public favor guillotine swinging down.

He knew better. Akira was a lot of things, but murderer was not one of them. Even if he wasn't sure _how_ the Phantom Thieves changed hearts, he _was_ sure they wouldn't suddenly switch from judge and jury to executioners. None of them had the stomach for it, least of which Akira.

Akechi wished the same could be said for him.

* * *

“You're moping.”

Akira’s eyes flicked up to Sojiro, finally dragged from their permanent home on the counter, expecting familiar looks of annoyance or inconvenience. He found nothing of the sort, just concern etched into an old face.

“I guess,” he replied simply. Beyond that, he wasn't sure what he was expected to say, so he snapped his mouth shut.

Clearly, though, it wasn't what Sojiro wanted to hear. “You know you can talk to me, right?” Sojiro tried again, this time digging for information a bit more transparently.

 _I might have murdered someone_ , Akira wanted to say.

“I know,” he said instead.

It felt hollow, but then again, so did he. Akira felt just _numb_. Like he was frosting the glass looking in at his own life, and watching as he fucked up more of it, dragged more people down with him, and doing nothing to stop it.

He could have stopped it. He could have avoided Okumura’s death if he’d kept his goddamn head down.

Sojiro regarded him in silence for a moment, lines in his face deepening with a misplaced concern—Akira didn't deserve to be worried for like this—before he sighed, and his age settled onto his face. “All right.” Sojiro said. Concern wasn't a good look on him. It would be much better for both of them if Sojiro just didn't _care_.

The air between them wasn't given the chance to sour into something awkward; the doorbell chimed and drew both of their attentions away from Akira’s impending meltdown and straight onto a wet dog. A human sized wet dog.

“Goro?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> an elephant never forgets


End file.
